To Hope Again
by ladygris
Summary: Four months after the events of DoFP, Charles admits he needs help. He has found hope for his future, but hanging on to that hope while facing wounds of his past has left him unable to cope. Instead of turning back to drink, he goes to the one person he remembers having done what he could not. But can she handle the reminder of the past and a pain too terrible to imagine?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to the X-Men or recognizable characters, settings, or events. I am simply playing in Marvel's and Stan Lee's sandbox. References to historical events include the Vietnam War and, possibly, the Watergate Scandal. However, all original characters, settings, and events are property of the author and not intended to represent any real person, place, or events. Any and all similarities are entirely coincidental and not the intent of the author.

 **Author's Note:** This story was written to reflect the emotional and mental toll the last year has taken on my life. Much of it is based on concepts that I learned as I coped with the loss of my father-in-law to lung cancer. However, that said, there are triggers in here that may be difficult for certain people. **Be aware of these triggers!** They include, among other things, past alcohol and drug abuse as well as emotional, physical, and mental abuse. I have done my best to keep this at a T rating while being real.

Also, I am an author, not a doctor or nurse or psychologist. I have written the characters to the best of my ability, and they are intended to be human, make mistakes, and become overwhelmed at times. I did not set out to write this as an example of modern nursing practices or even mid-seventies nursing practices. This is a story about hurting people learning to heal. Please keep this in mind as you read, particularly if you are a member of this profession.

This story contains spoilers for X-Men: First Class and X-Men: Days of Future Past-The Rogue Cut. Also, this story is completely written and working its way through the editing process. A big thanks to **theicemenace** for the beta work and to **Ani-maniac494** for being my first reader and sounding board. Both of them have helped make this story what it is today.

All of that said, I hope you all enjoy the story! And don't forget to tell me what you think.

~lg

~oOo~

Late May 1973. . . .

 _Housebound individual seeks qualified live-in nurse. Salary includes room and board in the quiet New York countryside approximately an hour-and-a-half from New York City. Interested applicants contact Dr. Hank McCoy._

Anne Conrad fingered the edge of the clipped advertisement as her taxi cab wound down Graymalkin Lane. This was further out of town than she'd expected, but she enjoyed the chance to get away from the city, from the noise, and from the constant pressure of other people. Besides, she had already sent in her resume and references, and this interview could not have come at a better time.

The front gate of the property stood open and did not inspire a lot of confidence. While the wrought iron was sturdy, the wooden embellishments on the gate showed a genuine lack of maintenance. The circle with an "X" in the middle was interesting, however, and Anne frowned. Not many people used that particular letter in their name. She had known only one, a long time ago.

She caught the glance of the cab driver in the rearview mirror and knew what he must be thinking. Everyone thought the same thing. She looked much younger than her thirty-two years, and she had always attributed that to good genetics. But, at times like this, she hated how men her father's age—and younger—seemed to think she needed protecting.

Those thoughts came to a halt when the house appeared. It was massive. Three stories high with bay windows, wrought iron railing, and a host of other ornate touches, it towered over the taxi as the driver pulled to a stop in front of the door. Weathered stone, leaded glass inlays on the front door, and a stone pathway welcomed visitors with a grandeur from years past. It would have made a charming picture, but the grounds showed years of neglect. The drive had long since lost all of its gravel and now puffed dust from the tires of the cab while weeds and grass encroached on its borders. A fountain, stained from years of disuse, featured another "X" in the design, but the grass there had also grown tall, barely tamed and leaving a visitor with the sense that the house had been abandoned. The trees around the drive were so thick she could barely see hints at a once-beautiful garden and grounds.

Surely this wasn't the place.

Anne leaned forward. "You're certain?" she asked again.

"Yep. Fourteen-oh-seven Graymalkin Lane." The cab driver nodded to the front door, where a small set of numbers confirmed the address. "Look, miss, I don't know you well. But I don't like the looks of this place. I'll stay here 'til you're sure you want me to leave." He held up a hand. "At no charge. I got a daughter your age."

Smiling at his assumption of her youth, Anne pushed the door to the taxi open and stepped out. The mid-summer sun warmed her face, and she took a moment to let it give her strength. _I hope I'm not making a colossal mistake_. The thought crossed her mind as she knocked, and then she felt the irrational urge to giggle. Just last night, when she received the call from Dr. Hank McCoy, she had rushed around her small apartment, making arrangements to be out of the city for a the day. The idea of taking a live-in position at a secluded home in the New York countryside sounded perfect for her needs. She was tired of people, tired of the city, and tired of how her life had turned out. Anyone with the money to afford a live-in nurse had to be able to give her a bit of luxury that her life had missed lately.

Now, she wanted to run the other direction. Weeds grew all along the drive, her visions of well-kept grounds and peaceful gardens dissipating along with the idea of a soft-spoken matron in silks and smelling of roses. Whoever lived here clearly did not care for how her home looked from the outside.

The massive door cracked a bit, and a thin young man wearing glasses peered out. "Miss Conrad?"

Anne forced a smile and nodded. "Yes."

He stepped back, swinging the door wide. "Come in." Then, he gave an embarrassed laugh. "My apologies for how this place looks. I'm sure you'll understand when I explain the position."

Anne found herself looking him over, not seeing any need for a live-in nurse. Had she misread the listing in the newspaper? Or was he the son or nephew, doting on an elderly relation in his or her last days? Or worse, a relation waiting for his elder to die and leave him with the fortune and house? He seemed too timid, too unsettled in his own skin, to be more than a family member. But being a doctor did not mean a medical degree. He very well could have earned his doctorate in some other science and used it to sound more official.

Following her still-unnamed escort, she walked gingerly through the mansion, noting the thick draperies over the windows and dim, cluttered rooms that showed a sincere lack of motivation. More than that, it showed. . . . She closed her eyes and pushed back the images of nights filled with too many cigarettes and bottles and not enough sleep.

Her escort led her into what appeared to be a library that had been converted to a study. At least this room was somewhat clean, though she could see cobwebs hanging in the corners and dust on the shelves. Two couches faced one another, a coffee table between them littered with books, papers, and a couple of glasses. And the sunlight slanting through the leaded windows changed color thanks to the stained glass that adorned them every foot or so. When motioned to do so, Anne perched on the edge of a couch.

The young man actually sat on the coffee table. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I'm relieved to finally have a qualified applicant after all this time."

Anne smiled. "I'm glad, but I'm afraid you have me at a loss. Mister. . .?"

He actually flushed. "I'm sorry." He held out a hand, sheepishly grinning at her. "I'm Hank McCoy. We spoke on the phone last night."

Anne shook the hand he offered, a little startled at his strength, and smiled. "Your ad said you were looking for a live-in nurse." She couldn't help but stare. He seemed awful young for a doctor, but she had met many brilliant men in her time. Perhaps he was one such individual just needing a chance in this world.

The flush on Dr. McCoy's face deepened. "Actually, we're looking for a live-in everything right now." He shrugged. "You see, my employer has authorized me to hire one person to help with the place. Not with heavy lifting, but with general upkeep."

Anne frowned. "The ad said ' _nurse_ ,'" she reminded him.

"Yes, and that's what we need." McCoy finally slipped onto the other end of the couch, sitting next to her rather than putting the table between them. "My employer is something of a recluse, as you can tell. He has some physical challenges that require medical expertise as well. He—and I—can take care of most of his medical needs. However, psychologically, he needs more than just me. He has decided that he needs to make his way back into the world." He shook his head. "I won't lie. This is not an easy job we're asking you to take on. My employer chose to create this position for reasons that are his own, and we hope you'll say yes."

Anne took a moment to look around the library. "Are all the rooms like this one?"

"Dirty and dusty?" McCoy gave her another embarrassed grin. "They're worse, I'm afraid."

"Worse?"

"Dark and closed up, mostly. But some of them are lived in." He shrugged again. "By two bachelors." Then, he flushed again. "By the way, I want it said up front that you have nothing to fear from us. We simply need someone else around the place. Someone to remind us that our world isn't these four walls."

"And you want that someone to be me?" She hated to say it, but this job was sounding less and less appealing as the moments passed. She knew what the clutter and dirt meant. It hearkened ten years into her past, to a time she forced herself to forget.

"Yes." McCoy reached behind him, picking up a few papers as he did so. "After receiving your application and resume, I took the liberty of contacting your previous employer. They declined to give you a recommendation."

Anne suppressed the snort that wanted to escape. "I'm not surprised."

"You worked in a rehabilitation center in Manhattan?" McCoy eyed her. "As what, exactly?"

"A nurse. My duties included the same thing any other nurse in a hospital might do, including administering medications, making notes in patient charts, ensuring patient safety. . . ." She smiled. "You get the picture."

"Yes." He studied the page in front of him, his blue eyes missing nothing on the it. "Any particular reason they wouldn't want to recommend you?"

She lifted her chin. "I left them for ethical reasons. I saw things there that went against everything I learned as a nurse and, as much as I liked the work, I could not continue to condone such behavior."

"Such as?" McCoy made a few notes as she spoke, glancing up only when she hesitated.

Anne sighed deeply. She had known this would come up, but stating the facts out loud while an open investigation hung over her head felt a little awkward. Not to mention she hoped this didn't preclude her from working. "Adding fictional _pro bono_ cases to our patient list to receive federal and state funding. Other nurses who, for a price, smuggled contraband to the patients." She shook her head slightly. "I reported all of this to the State of New York the day I left that position. I apologize that you don't have a positive recommendation, but I _am_ qualified for this position." _And I really need the job._

McCoy offered a smile, but it did little to calm the nerves in Anne's stomach. She hated interviews. Trying to find a way to ignore how he seemed to have every bit of information on her time as a nurse in front of him, she glanced around the room. The windows were darkened, but the crack in the dust-covered drapes showed that this was the back of the house. There had once been a garden there, but it had long since grown over and become wild. Still, she could see no other house or signs of civilization for miles save for the large satellite dish barely visible over the trees.

Could she do this? The longer she stayed in this house, the more she felt like she'd stepped back in time, returned to England and Franklin and his controlling ways. Or worse, to New York and those horrible months after she came back to the States. She recognized the dirt and clutter, the moldy smell, and the embarrassment on McCoy's face. At least one person in this house was a drug addict. Or had recently been and hadn't quite pulled out of the lifestyle.

Or was it a lifestyle? Too many times, doctors prescribed medications that masked problems rather than finding the underlying cause, whether depression or true pain. As a result, many became addicted to the medication and began taking it because, for the first time in their lives, they actually felt _good_.

She remembered that feeling.

She turned suddenly. "I really do wish I could help you, Dr. McCoy, but I don't know that I'm the right person." She forced herself to meet his eyes, the panic in her throat a thing she had not anticipated. "I realize the difficulties you face since you are an employer, but. . . ."

McCoy started to speak, trying to stop her from talking herself out of the job, but the door creaked open behind her, and a strange whirring sound filtered into the library. A moment later, a soft, cultured voice spoke, halting everything she might have said. "Hello, Anne."

Anne felt her eyes nearly bug out of her head. She hadn't heard that voice in years, but it was as familiar to her as her own. "Charles?!" She turned to stare, hoping she didn't do something foolish like jump into his arms.

And then she stopped.

Charles Xavier, brilliant geneticist and former friend, sat in a motorized wheelchair, his hair falling somewhat haphazardly into his face. His blue eyes were clear, if a little shadowed by obvious lack of sleep. And he was much thinner than she remembered. But it was her friend from her university days, before the drinking and partying became too much for her to handle and she ran home. Back then, he'd always been kind, a little bit of a flirt, and someone she trusted to know just how Franklin treated her. At the time, Charles had wanted to visit her boyfriend and bring vengeance down on his head, but Anne had convinced him otherwise. He had respected her wishes, but he still kept as close an eye on her as he did his own sister. And, at the time, she had loved him for it.

The rush of memories faded, leaving behind a warm glow in Anne's mind. She blinked as Charles wheeled toward her. She could not stop her eyes from straying toward his legs, however, and wished she wasn't so obvious. McCoy unobtrusively moved an armchair out of the way and then settled on the other couch.

Charles met Anne's eyes. "I'm sorry for the subterfuge, love, but I assure you it was necessary." He smiled, that same smirk that had calmed her in years past. "As soon as I knew who you were, I decided to meet with you instead of letting Hank handle all the questions."

Anne blinked. " _You're_ the recluse?"

He laughed, a refined chuckle that instantly made her think of long nights studying together in a library. "Yes, I am afraid so."

Then, she closed her eyes at how her statement had sounded. "I'm sorry. That was. . . ."

"Don't be." He shrugged. "It's true. For over ten years since I was injured, I've been a. . . ." His voice trailed off, and he took a deep breath. ". . .a selfish, arrogant, utterly slovenly recluse."

"Why do I get the feeling that was kinder than what you wanted to say?" She remembered his propensity to swear when he was drunk.

"Because it is." Charles met her eyes. "Anne, I need someone here other than Hank. He's carried me for the last ten years, but he's also enabled me. Not by his own choice, mind you, and with the best intentions in mind. However, I need someone I can trust here to keep me on track, to keep Hank from giving in to my begging, and to assist me in overcoming a few challenges."

She realized just how much that humbling speech took out of him. "May I ask what happened?"

He shrugged. "I was shot." It was a simple statement, but his voice held a bit of pain. Like a wound that hadn't quite healed, no matter how long it had been. "It severed most of my spinal cord, leaving me with virtually no sensation below the waist. Most of my. . .uh. . .personal needs I handle on my own. Your role would be more of psychological and emotional support. And, now that you're here, I can't think of anyone more perfect."

Anne took a deep breath and let it out. "Charles, you have no idea what you're asking." Meeting his eyes, she sighed. "I'm not the same girl you knew all those years ago."

"And I'm not the same man I was," he said simply. "Time changes us. Some for the good." He glanced at McCoy. Then, he shrugged again. "And some for the worse."

"What makes you so sure I'm qualified to handle this? I'm not a psychiatric nurse or even trained in psychology. I just empty bed pans and make sure patients don't harm themselves."

This time, when he looked directly into her eyes, she felt as if he could see down into her very soul. As strange as it seemed, it wasn't a particularly unwelcome or comfortable feeling. Finally, he spoke softly, as if trying to convince her. "Because of who you are and the life you've lived, you're uniquely qualified."

She laughed. "I barely passed my nurse's eval!"

"Not what I meant, Anne, and you know it." His tone lowered with that statement, leaving her feeling as if she'd just stepped out of line.

She narrowed her eyes, irritated at how he acted as if he truly knew what she'd done. "What do you know of me?"

"I remember nights at the library," he said in that same soft tone. "Nights when you swore me to silence and begged that I wouldn't do what was running through my mind. And I remember what you faced when you returned home. A man can infer a lot from that, and being here cannot be easy on you."

"No, it's not." Anne drew in a deep breath, trying not to let him see how thoroughly he'd unnerved her. But he was right. She had recognized certain signs the moment she walked through the door. Now, she decided to be frank. "You're an alcoholic?"

"And drug addict." He shrugged again. "I'm not proud of it, nor am I willing to advertise it. However, I am willing to admit I need help to overcome it."

"Why?" She glared at him. "Why turn to the bottle? Why would someone like you—someone who had _everything—_ give it all up for a few hours or days of oblivion?"

He took a long moment to speak, but, when he did, his voice broke. "Because," he said in a voice barely above a whisper, "I lost everything. Raven, my dreams, even myself."

 _Because of a gunshot wound?_ Anne frowned as the thought crossed her mind. But she didn't say anything for a long moment, letting Charles handle the bitterness of revealing such personal information. Of course she remembered Raven, his pretty sister that always seemed so supportive of his research. What had happened to change such a devoted relationship between the siblings, different though they were?

Charles drew in a sharp breath and seemed to get his thoughts under control. "Now you see why I need you? Why I want someone like you in my house? You pulled yourself out, Anne. You worked up the courage to get away from Franklin, to get out of England, and to start again." He shook his head. "I don't have that, but you did. As a result, you seem to be the perfect person to help me."

 _But what will it do to me? Can I go back to those days, when everything in me wanted to go back to England, back to him? Back to the drugs and drinking and not caring? Or caring too much?_ These questions flew through Anne's mind as she tried to understand just why Charles would ask her to do such a thing. _And what about those things that he doesn't know about? Surely there has been someone much more qualified than I am respond to this ad._

He reached out, taking her hand in a characteristic show of support. "I know what I'm asking you to do, Anne," he said, his expression more like what she remembered. "But I hope you'll at least consider it."

She couldn't speak at that. How had he known what she was thinking? Of course, Charles always seemed rather perceptive to the world around him, and he paid specific attention to those he called friends. If anyone would know what this sort of life would do to her, he would understand it.

Finally, she pulled her hand from his. "Give me a few days?"

"Take the time you need." He sat back in his wheelchair. "And call any time you want to talk."

"Thanks." She stood, edging around his chair and heading toward the front door. McCoy, as quiet as he'd been before, quickly joined her and escorted her back out.

At the front door, he met her eyes. "I hope you'll take the job, Miss Conrad." He lowered his voice. "That's the most animated I've seen him in months."

Anne narrowed her eyes. "He's depressed. And, no matter how long he's been without a drink or hit right now, he's probably wanting a fix, too."

"I know." McCoy dropped his gaze suddenly, seemingly debating with himself. "Just so you know, if you take this job, you won't have to worry about anything unethical. Charles is honorable in spite of his challenges, and anything that's needed for the job will be provided. No funding from the State."

Anne smiled at his reassurance. "I remember how honorable Charles was in university. I doubt he's changed that much." She sighed and decided to just ask the question. "Why hasn't someone else filled this role? I'm sure there are much more qualified individuals out there who would jump at this opportunity."

"There are." McCoy shrugged. "Charles didn't like them and said to keep looking."

"Oh."

McCoy held out a hand. "Thank you for coming."

She shook his hand, appreciating the strong grip. "I'll call you in three days," she promised. Then, she slipped back into the bright sunshine and took a deep breath. The air wasn't so stale out here, and it cleared her head of old memories and wishes. The cab still waited for her, the driver looking concerned as she hesitated. Realizing the old man would want answers, she opened the door and slipped into the car.

He looked in the rear view mirror at her. "Good interview?"

Anne nodded. "Yes, it was. I got thejob."

~oOo~

Inside the mansion, Charles Xavier watched the taxi pull away from the front of the house, his mind not quite as settled as he would have liked. Seeing Anne Conrad again—or, rather, _sensing_ her presence again—had taken him by surprise. The last time he'd seen her, she had come to him in tears just before he got his degree, and confessed that she was returning to the States. Franklin had abused her one too many times, and she just wanted out. To leave it all behind and never think of it again. Charles had been sorry to see her go, but he had let her go because she could no longer stay.

 _I wish it hadn't taken so long for me to see the same thing with Raven._

The stray thought caused him to come to his senses, and he let the heavy drapes fall back into place. Turning his chair away from the window, he found Hank staring at him from the doorway. "Hank?"

The other man stepped into the room. "How well did you know her?"

"She was a friend." Charles shrugged. "In Oxford for the same reason I was: a brilliant mind with parents who had enough money to send her there. We met in the library late one night, and I found her to be a peaceful person with whom I could study. Over time, we became friends, and I was sorry to see her go."

"Are you going to be okay if she decides to take the job?"

Charles turned to look out the crack between the heavy drapes. "She'll take the job," he said decisively. She had do. If she didn't, Charles wasn't quite certain what to do next. He had spent much of February trying to find Logan, trying to hold on to the hope he'd reclaimed, and yet it had all come crashing down after four weeks.

"Not what I asked," Hank replied. He took a few steps forward. "Miss Conrad's employment records only go back ten years, and most of those are low-income jobs. She graduated with her nursing degree in the lower half of her class, primarily because she was unable to put the time in to study. And her one job since then has declined our request for a recommendation."

Charles closed his eyes, choosing to ignore his friend for a moment. Could he handle having Anne there? Had she not been living with Franklin and completely in love with the lowlife, he might have asked her to dinner. Maybe even fallen in love with her and told her of his abilities. After all, he knew her almost better than she knew herself. And he _trusted_ her, even now.

But a lot of years had passed, and things had changed. His bright dreams for the future of mutant-kind had been trampled on, first by Erik and then by the United States government. Even now, with Raven free and innocent of a murder she had planned, he still could not bring himself to see how he would ever create a place for others like him. After all, they had seen what he could not and left him. The war, the intervening years. . . .It was all too much for him to handle, and he knew he needed help that Hank just couldn't give him.

"Yes." He finally answered the question. Turning to stare at his closest friend, he allowed a bit of his depression to show. "I meant what I said. She pulled herself out. I need someone like that around. And I don't care what her employment record says, Hank. I know enough about Anne to know that she will not fail in what she sets her heart to accomplish."

"She can't stay here forever, Charles."Hank shrugged. "She has to move on sometime, and so do you."

"I know."

The two men didn't speak again. Hank left Charles at the window and returned to his lab, the one room in the house that was absolutely spotless. Thinking of this made Charles take a good look at the music room. It had so many windows that sunlight poured in every hour of the day, but dark drapes had been added to keep his hung-over eyes from burning too badly. Suddenly irritated with how far he'd fallen, he wheeled to the windows he could reach and yanked the curtains so harshly that he heard fabric tear. Rays of sunshine caused the dust in the room to dance, bringing a certain release with it that Charles hadn't felt in far too long. He rolled to the next window and then the next, yanking curtains open until the only dark spot that remained was the window seat. Eyeing it, he wheeled over and frowned. Pushing out of the chair, he carefully practiced the transfer method he'd learned so long ago, his arms trembling by the time he was done. But, the curtains here moved as easily as the others, and he soon found himself bathed in the late afternoon sun.

His burst of energy fading, Charles lifted his legs onto the dust-coated window seat and leaned his head against the wall. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he licked his lips. He wanted a drink. So badly that his stomach ached and gave him a headache. For a brief moment, he let himself fall into a fantasy of pouring a full glass of Scotch, lifting it to his lips, and letting it burn as it went down.

Then, he shook himself. If he let that sort of thinking remain, he'd end up back where Logan had found him.

The thought of Logan acted as quickly as anything could have. Over the few days that the strange man had worked with them, Charles had come to care. To consider Logan a brother of sorts. He respected the history the man carried, the future that would hopefully change, and the pain all wrapped into a tough warrior that lived through too many battles. The last time he'd seen Logan, Erik had thrown him out of that stadium. He and Hank had searched, but no body matching Logan's description had been found, and there was no way that anyone could survive having re-bar so brutally stabbed into his body. That reality had been enough to drive him back to drink.

And that is when he placed the ad. In the three months since then, Charles had telepathically interviewed multiple applicants who simply wanted to take advantage of him and work an easy job. Anne had been the first to truly care, to truly consider whether or not she could even accomplish what he hoped she could.

Rolling his head so that he looked outside, Charles took a moment to examine the view. The property had always been so perfect as he grew up. But the last few years had left as much of a mark on his lawn as it had on his body. He really needed to take more interest in his current life, in finding Logan and learning how to live again.

If he could only find the motivation to do more than stare out the window. . . .Charles shook his head.

He wanted Anne to accept the job. He _needed_ her to accept it. Because he was afraid of what would happen if she didn't.

~TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Anne took every one of the three days she'd given herself to think about Charles Xavier's job offer. She immediately wanted to run, call Dr. McCoy and regretfully decline the position. Then, she pictured Charles in his wheelchair, looking so desperate and almost afraid she would race from the house, screaming in terror. She almost had, and she picked up the phone several times to do just that.

But something always stopped her.

Back in England, she had found the courage to leave in a pair of resolute blue eyes that sometimes burned with anger and a refined voice that softly promised he would do nothing. During those days, when Franklin controlled her life and left marks on her body that took forever to heal, Charles had been her refuge. He always listened, never tried to fix her, and held her hand when she shied away from any physical contact. Through Charles, she learned that not all men were like Franklin, that some simply wished to protect women, and that she was better than being used as a bed warmer. It was a lesson that gave her the determination to make her own way, no matter what she'd done since then.

During the interview, he told her that she'd had the strength to climb out of that lifestyle and he didn't. He couldn't have been more wrong. _He_ had given her the strength, holding her close that last night even though every nerve in her body screamed to stop him from touching her. _He_ had let her go, even when she hoped he wouldn't. _He_ had wished her well. And, on the dark nights following her return to the States, Charles's lessons and her hope of finding something better kept her from ending everything.

Now, she had the opportunity to repay the debt, and she could no sooner deny him that than she could find Franklin and go back to that relationship.

She spent the final hours of the third day packing her meager belongings into boxes and arranging for her furniture to be stored with a friend. Having seen Charles's home, she knew she would have plenty of room for it all, but she felt a little ashamed of the thrift store couch and garage sale lamps. Never mind that she'd been thrilled to find them and had enjoyed the homey atmosphere they created. They did not belong in a mansion like Charles's.

Finally, it came time for her to make the call. Picking up the phone, Anne dialed the number she'd memorized and waited. A moment later, a man picked up the phone, his accent giving him away. " _Hello?_ "

A little bubble in her stomach burst, leaving her feeling like the college girl all over again. "I'll take the job, Charles."

He chuckled, the warm sound floating over the phone line and helping to calm her. " _I hoped you would. I know we didn't discuss salary, and I'm happy to offer whatever you want. As long as you'll come._ "

"Bribery after I accept the invitation?"

" _No. A promise._ " He paused. " _I've had a set of rooms prepared for you on the second floor. And I can have a car sent to your apartment tomorrow. How much room do you need for your things?_ "

Anne looked around at her paltry existence. How did this tiny apartment compare to the soaring ceilings, sparkling chandeliers, and elegant furniture hidden beneath the dust and grime of years of depression? "Not much. I'm storing my furniture for now. Just my clothes and a few personal things that should fit in the car."

" _Good. The car will be there around eleven._ " He hesitated again, and then sighed. " _I'll see you tomorrow, then?_ "

"Tomorrow."

" _Have a good night, Anne._ "

She set down the phone with a smile. It was the same farewell he gave her when she left him at the library all those times. But, this time, it had an edge of awkwardness. And why shouldn't it? She was about to move in with the guy!

The next morning, she learned that her landlord refused to refund her safety deposit for some undefined reason. Instead of worrying, she stared out the window of her apartment and watched as a sleek black car pulled next to the curb. Dr. McCoy climbed out a moment later, and Anne took a deep breath.

This was it. Her moment to back out if she so chose.

The knock at her apartment door sounded before she could panic too much, and she pasted on a smile when she saw who stood there. "Come in, Dr. McCoy."

He flushed slightly, an embarrassed grin coming to his face. "Uh. . .it's just Hank." He looked around, barely raising an eyebrow at the hodgepodge furniture before fixing his eyes on the small collection of bags and a few boxes near the door. "Is that it?"

"Yes."

"Head on down to the car. I'll take care of these." His tone clearly said he didn't need her help, and Anne wondered if Charles had put him up to it. Nevertheless, she took him at his word, grabbed her purse and one other bag, and headed downstairs. She found the car easily, and Hank wasn't too far behind her. He opened the passenger door, and Anne slid inside, admiring the leather seats and luxury surrounding her. At least Hank had allowed her to sit in the front, not in the back like some spoiled princess.

He finished loading her things in the massive trunk in short order and then climbed behind the wheel. "Sorry to leave you waiting. Charles was pretty adamant that I be the one to bring you to the house."

Anne graced him with a smile. "I'm fine, Hank," she said softly. "And I'm sure you'll realize I'm not there to take your position."

"I know." He glanced over at her as he pulled into traffic. "But it's just been the two of us guys for so long. . . ." He shrugged. "After a while, I got used to just handling things. The groceries, the bills, making sure Charles had the medications he needed. Then, the drugs started. He's right. I enabled him. But I got tired of the fighting and the shouting."

Anne blinked. "Charles shouting? I hardly believe that."

"Believe it." Hank turned onto the highway that would take them back to the house. "Granted, he wasn't exactly in a good spot then, but. . . ."

"What brought him out of it?"

"A friend who needed more help than he did." Hank's face sobered. "And a sort-of reunion with Raven."

"What happened there?"

Suddenly, it felt like Hank had put a glass wall between them. "That's up to Charles to tell you."

Anne knew she'd get nothing more on the topic and let the conversation fade. She turned to watch the passing scenery and sighed deeply. This was her life now. Being driven around by Hank until she learned which car—if there was more than one—that she could drive, living in a mansion, being surrounded by opulence, and dealing with the mystery that was her college friend.

The miles passed far too quickly, and Anne blinked as Hank drove through the iron gate. Then, she sat up a little straighter. The drive had been cleaned up, the grass trimmed and mowed. Everything showed the sharp edges she'd imagined, though the trees still needed a decent pruning come autumn. Suddenly, the house didn't look so neglected. Or haunted. "Charles got things cleaned up?"

Hank glanced her way again, another sheepish grin on his face. "He insisted. Said you'd take the job and that the house shouldn't look so run-down." Then, he shrugged. "But it's just your room, the kitchen, and the music room. We're moving a little slowly."

 _And the house was in dire need to begin with_ , Anne thought. She frowned as she saw movement in the main doorway. "And it appears I have a welcoming party."

Charles sat in front of the impressive entrance to his home, wearing a sweater vest over a collared blue shirt. His hair was still shaggy, but combed out. And he looked more like the man she remembered than the desperate alcoholic that she'd seen during the interview.

He wheeled forward with a smile as soon as the car stopped and she climbed out. Holding out a hand, he took one of hers in a firm grip. "I'm so glad you're here."

She chuckled, a little unsettled by his enthusiastic greeting. "Uh. . .thanks."

Turning expertly in his chair, he headed for the ramp near the staircase that led to his front door. "Hank will bring your things up. I'm afraid we'll have to use the lift, but I'll show you to your room."

"I don't mind the elevator, Charles." She frowned. "Or should it be Mr. Xavier since you're now technically my boss?"

He stopped just inside the massive wooden door to glare at her. "Don't," he said in a low tone. "Before anything else, you and I are friends. I want it to stay like that."

Anne nodded, suddenly getting a glimpse of the brooding man he'd obviously been for far too long. But her eye was drawn back to the entrance of his home. Namely, the haphazardly cleaned state. The chandeliers still needed a thorough dusting, and the corners of the wood floor were a bit stained. But someone, probably Hank, had given it such a sincere effort, sparkling up the furniture and removing the heavy drapes from the windows behind the staircase, that Anne ignored the imperfections.

The elevator was at least ten years old with luxuriously paneled walls designed to match the rest of the house. Charles expertly maneuvered his wheelchair inside, leaving plenty of room for her, and pushed the button for the second floor. "I hope you don't mind having your rooms upstairs. There's only one bedroom downstairs, and I sometimes sleep there for easy access to the house."

"I understand."

"If I remember correctly, you were always a bit of a night owl who loved the morning sunlight." Charles gave her a wry glance as the elevator arrived at the second floor. "I never understood it. But we chose an east facing room for you."

Anne blinked as she realized why he had begun to chatter. Charles was nervous and hoped that she'd approve of his provisions for her. It startled her to think that her self-assured friend had come to the point of uncertainty with anyone, particularly when he usually had such a good grasp on human behavior. But years and addiction change a person, and she was now a stranger to him.

Charles led her past rooms filled with draped furniture—if their doors were opened at all—and finally stopped at one corner of the house. He pushed the door open, rolling inside and out of the way so that Anne could enter.

She felt her jaw drop and couldn't stop it.

The bedroom spread out before her, every bit as large as the apartment she'd just vacated. A massive four poster bed with a headboard halfway up the wall sat in the center of the room, the east-facing windows that Charles had promised to its side. Two armchairs matching the deep cherry wood and ornate carvings of the bed, had been positioned in front of the window, inviting her to read or knit or anything else she wished. A lamp on a table between them would add a touch of brightness to the windows at night. Rich draperies of burgundy fabric shimmered in the light from both the windows and the crystal chandelier. On either side of the bed, lamps lit up the area, and the bedspread matched the draperies and furniture to perfection. The paneled walls were brightened by cream-colored wallpaper with a subtle pattern on it, and a fireplace waited for cooler months to be lit. Another arrangement of armchairs circled the fireplace. Ivory carpets had been laid over the hardwood flooring, defying anyone with the desire to see them coated with grime.

Charles watched her with a slight smile on his face. He pointed at a door behind him. "There's a dressing room through here, where you'll find a wardrobe and dresser. And the bathroom, as well."

Anne wandered into the other room attached to the bedroom, staring at the opulent dressing table, dresser with a massive mirror, and wardrobe. The bathroom had large windows as well, pouring sunlight into it. Another large window in the dressing room, this one with a window seat, showed that she was now looking at the corner of the property.

Returning to the bedroom, she blinked. "Charles, this is. . .I mean, I knew the house was. . . .But this is amazing!"

He chuckled at that, relief evident in spite of his amusement. "I'm glad."

"You shouldn't have, though."

"What? Put you in a room that would suit your needs to perfection?"

"Suit my needs?" She blinked at him. "Charles, this one room is bigger than the apartment I had in New York."

"I know." He tilted his head to one side. "Anne, you're here doing me a favor. The least I can do is give you a room that is entirely yours. For the time that you live here, this set of rooms is to be treated as your own personal home. Neither Hank nor I will enter it without your express permission."

"A _room_ , yes. You've just offered me an apartment!"

He narrowed his eyes. "Does it really make you so uncomfortable?"

"Does what make me uncomfortable?"

"That I have the wealth or that I would choose to share it with a friend?"

Anne blinked at the probing question, uncertain of how to answer. Yes, Charles's wealth did make her uncomfortable, primarily because she returned to the States in disgrace. Her parents, though well-to-do, had cut her off, ensuring a harsh road for their daughter. She grew up knowing that she would never be good enough. Charles, on the other hand, offered everything freely. She frowned. "Aren't you afraid I'll take advantage of you?"

"No." His answer was quick and decisive. "Anne, if there's anything I know about you, it's that you're honest, you work hard at everything you do, and you're worth having in my home. I trust you. That's why you're here."

Finally getting control of her emotions, Anne straightened up and met his eyes. "Thank you," she said simply, earning another of his pleased smiles.

"You're welcome." He glanced over his shoulder to where Hank carried up the first load of bags and gave her an awkward grin. "I'll leave you to settle in." With that abrupt ending, Charles wheeled his way out of the room.

Anne watched him go, almost sad that he'd left but still rather overwhelmed. She looked from the now-empty door to Hank. "Is he always so giving?"

Hank looked around the room. "Yes. At least, with his friends." He gave her another awkward smile and left to carry her boxes from the car. Anne watched, wishing she could do something to help but knowing that both Hank and Charles would object. Instead, she began going through the few that Hank had already delivered, finding new places to put items in the three rooms that she could call her own.

Once her belongings had been delivered, Hank pulled out a pile of paperwork. Going through it, he outlined the rather generous salary Charles had agreed to pay her, the list of responsibilities that Anne mentally added to, and the other particulars of the job. The paycheck would come from Charles's corporation, Graymalkin Industries. For the first time since she agreed to take this position, Anne felt a touch of doubt.

 _Why am I here? Charles looks fine, and I'm out of place._ The thoughts whirled around in her head, uncertainty nipping at her heels. Seeing the "provisions" he'd made for her, how he'd openly welcomed her, and the way the house hinted at a darker set of emotions, she began to doubt herself. This room was immaculate, bright, and airy. But the rest of the house held the same defeated attitude of its owner. What could she do to help with any of it?

~oOo~

 _Why am I here? Charles looks fine, and I'm out of place._ Anne's thoughts followed him down the corridor and back onto the elevator. He had sensed her surprise with the improvements to the grounds the moment she rode through the gates, and her absolute shock at the bedroom had put a smile on his face. But, now, doubt began to tinge her thoughts and seeped into his own as well.

What was he doing? Having Anne under his roof reminded him of the past, of a time when he could walk and do whatever he wished. Of a time when he didn't have to worry about whether or not he'd be able to stop drinking with just one glass of Scotch. Those days were gone forever, and he still hadn't fully dealt with the blow of losing his legs. Oh, he had put on a good show, smiled in all the right places, and told the psychologists everything they wanted to hear. But the truth was that he still felt anger and hurt at Erik's actions. While Erik had been defending himself, his defense had sent that bullet into Charles's spine and ended his life as he'd known it.

The depression that always seemed to loom over him settled on his shoulders again, and Charles let the lift take him to the lowest levels of the property. Down here, in the stark white corridors and in Cerebro's massive room, he could close his eyes and be alone. Yes, he still felt Hank—and now Anne—moving around upstairs. But it was muted, a result of the metals required to operate Cerebro. Depending on how these metals were charged, they either enhanced or dulled his abilities. The helmet of wires sat where it always had, waiting for him to put it on and begin to locate other mutants who needed help. But, until recently, it had simply collected dust. Now, it lay shattered, Hank still not having worked up the will to repair the damage Raven had caused.

Hank had been cleaning down here as well. Charles smiled at that. While he'd helped with what he could, Hank had happily handled a vacuum cleaner and mop, pulling down the horrid draperies that shrouded the entrance of the mansion and the music room. For a house full of windows, the darkness had become oppressive. Even Charles noticed it after Anne's visit.

What was it about her that made him want to open up everything? Their history, perhaps? After all, Anne represented a time in his life when he had been happy, when he'd had his closest family around him and had no need for things like Hank's serum or alcohol to keep him sane. Only, it hadn't kept him sane. It had driven him to the point that he couldn't even operate the school he had spent so long developing.

 _Professor!_ The snort of derision sounded through Cerebro's large chamber, mocking Charles even though he'd been the one to let it out. What had he been thinking? How could he, a telepath with an alcohol problem, ever think he could help others?

 _I'll do my best._ The promise echoed around his skull as loudly as his snort had. He had spoken those words to Logan not six months ago, committing himself to rebuilding the school and finding others like him. Who had Logan mentioned? Storm? Jean? Scott? Those names stuck with Charles in the darkest parts of the night, though he had no idea just who they were. How was he supposed to find them? He certainly wasn't using Cerebro any time soon. He knew what would happen even if Raven hadn't destroyed the machine. He would find these mutants and more, want to help them, and then fail spectacularly.

So much for Anne's presence being cathartic to his health.

Leaning forward in his chair, Charles cupped one hand around his forehead and closed his eyes as he thought. He had not used Cerebro since the events at the White House. He had searched for Logan through conventional means, trying to find him and extend his help now.

He had failed. Miserably.

Charles stayed where he was for a long time, until the door behind him opened and Hank walked through. "I don't want to be bothered right now, Hank."

"Too bad." Hank's attitude had changed a lot in recent days. Now, his blunt tone echoed through Cerebro. "The least you can do is be upstairs."

Charles wheeled his chair around and met his friend's eyes. "Look, I know what you're trying to do for me, and I understand why. Anne is a friend of mine, and you think that, by being around her, it'll help me remember better days. But that's the problem. All my memories of her are from before."

Hank stared, obviously uncertain of what to say. But Charles heard his thoughts clearly. _Why not make new ones?_

It sounded so easy to someone who hadn't dealt with the things that Charles had experienced. But how could he make new memories when the old ones wouldn't leave him alone? When they mocked him and taunted him at night, never letting him forget that the only way he stayed out of pain was with a serum flowing through his veins and alcohol in his hand?

Shaking his head, Charles glanced around. "I came down here because. . . ." He let his voice trail off, unsure how Hank would take it. "Well, because it's _quieter_ down here."

Hank immediately understood. "You're accustomed to my mind, but not to Anne's."

Charles glanced around. "She's different. When I knew her, she was young and living with a man who abused her. Now, she's strong. She's determined. And, if we let her, she'll single-handedly clean this entire house just to keep it from reminding her of what she's experienced."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"No." Charles sighed. "And yes. Look, I don't know!" But he did know. He was embarrassed to let Anne see just how far he'd fallen when, in her eyes, he was still the good friend who kept her safe when Franklin was on a rampage. He was still her safety net, and he knew he couldn't fulfill that position in his current state. He had so far to go, and the thought of the long journey exhausted him before he even began.

Hank finally nodded. "Well, Anne already said she's going to get settled in tonight, maybe eat alone so she can get used to the apartment you gave her. I'll order something to be delivered. Just don't stay down here all night."

Charles smiled at that. "I won't."

Hank left then, and Charles let out a deep breath. During the last ten years—those awful years of hating himself and what the world had done to him—Hank had been his anchor. The younger man never should have been so isolated in the mansion, holed up with Charles while Charles self-destructed. But Hank had stayed and never let Charles get so low that he permanently checked out. He had wanted to, but the thought of what would happen to the Beast, as Alex had so colorfully called him, stopped him every time.

Not really wishing to think about those dark times, Charles finally wheeled his way out of Cerebro and back to the main floor of the house. Anne was reading, based on her thoughts, and Charles chose to leave her to herself. Hank had retreated to his lab, and a note on Charles's door said that supper would be delivered that evening. Pulling the note from the wood, Charles pushed his way inside and looked around. His bed had not been made, and trash and clutter left the room looking—and smelling—like it had when Logan first arrived. Even the chair where he had sat to shoot up with the serum hadn't been moved.

Suddenly disgusted with himself, Charles reached down to pick up the dirty laundry on his floor rather than rolling over it. He tossed it into a pile and moved on to the next batch of clothes and clutter.

It was time to stop living like an addict and start living.

~TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed the last couple of chapters, particularly those who left guest reviews! Your support is always appreciated! ~lg

~oOo~

The high-pitched whistle of a tea kettle woke Charles the next morning. He blinked at the curtained window, frowning as he tried to put his thoughts in order. Something was different.

Rolling halfway over to glance at the clock on the wall, he stared at the time. It was at least three hours earlier than he typically rose, and the bedside table was clean. Well, it had Raven's picture on it, as well as his lamp, but no other clutter or dust speckled its surface. Lifting his head to look around, Charles also noted that he had a different set of sheets and a clean bedspread over his legs.

Dropping his head to the pillow, he couldn't stop the laugh. It had been so long since he'd even made his bed, let alone changed the sheets, that he wasn't certain how to act. But he was awake, Anne's humming penetrating his mind as she moved around the kitchen. Closing his eyes and bringing two fingers to his temple, Charles reached for her, smiling at the peaceful, yet slightly awed, emotion in her thoughts. She was focused completely on how to finish her bagel perfectly and what else to scrounge from the refrigerator.

Withdrawing from her mind, he pushed himself to a seated position. The transfer to the wheelchair and his morning necessities took less and less time as he grew accustomed to the process. He wheeled past two large piles of laundry on the hardwood floor, glancing over to realize it would take forever to transport them to the washer. But he absolutely was _not_ asking for help with that. Hank had done enough, and he hadn't hired Anne to clean his clothing.

At the door, however, he stopped and looked down. He wore what he always had for bed: wide-legged pajamas, a thin t-shirt, and a threadbare house robe over it all. He hadn't even brushed his teeth, never feeling a need to dos o. But a woman was in the house now, no matter if she was a friend or not. He couldn't appear looking like he'd just climbed out of bed.

 _Or like an invalid._ The thought echoed through his head, much the same way his promise to Logan had the previous evening. Wheeling away from the door, he took a few moments to locate some clean clothes and dressed for the day. It was harder than it should have been, but at least he looked somewhat respectable. He settled for running his fingers through his hair and then left his room.

Anne was using a Blue Willow teapot, pouring a cup of extremely dark tea, when he arrived. She glanced up, a smile on her face. "Good morning. Hank said you usually slept late."

Charles felt a flush beginning at his collar and shrugged. "I heard the kettle," he said by way of explanation. Before she could apologize, however, he motioned to the tea. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all." Anne made as if to get him a tea cup and plate, but she stopped when he wheeled into the kitchen. "The tea is rather dark."

He grinned at her. "I seem to recall your irritation of how I make tea. It wasn't 'strong enough.'"

"Well, it's not," Anne mumbled as she added cream cheese to her bagel. But a smile teased the corners of her lips, and Charles was thankful she hadn't apologized yet.

With his own cup, plus a saucer and plate, on his lap, he moved back to where she'd prepared a fruit tray, several bagels, and the tea. Quiet settled over them as he added a teaspoon of sugar and a lemon to his cup, followed by the tea and then a quick drizzle of the cream she'd put out. During their evenings in the Oxford library, Charles had taught her how to prepare a "proper English tea." Not that many British citizens observed the tradition any more, but it had made her smile then. Now, it made him smile. She had remembered everything.

Choosing a bagel and a few pieces of fruit, Charles sipped the tea, added a touch more sugar, and then met her eyes. "Any plans for today?"

Anne blinked at him. "Um. . ." Her eyes moved to the kitchen. "Mind if I head to town and get a few things?"

"Not at all." He looked over to where Hank stumbled through the door, scratching his head and yawning. "Hank can take you."

The scientist frowned. "Hank can take who where?"

"Anne needs to go to town." Charles smirked when he saw how his friend did a double-take at his appearance. "You can show her the ropes."

Hank narrowed his eyes. "And what about you?"

"Ah, nice try, my friend." Charles picked up his tea, enjoying the ability to dumbfound the Beast for once. "I intend to stay here and work some more around the house."

Hank eyed him, obviously rather suspicious of his intentions, but nodded to Anne. "I'll take you."

She smiled at both men, returning to her breakfast while Hank fixed coffee. Charles saw the glances his way and knew what Hank was thinking. Under the guise of watching the workmen intent on getting his grounds back in shape, he put two fingers to his temple and propped his elbow on the table. _There's nothing going to happen, my friend_ , he said in Hank's mind. _I intend to wash laundry and finish cleaning my room. And, now that I say that, it makes me sound like a rebellious teenager._

Hank glanced over his shoulder, surprised at the silent intrusion. _If the shoe fits. . . ._

Charles gave him a mock glare. But the telepathic contact was enough, and he didn't need to embarrass himself in front of Anne by admitting that he hadn't washed his laundry in a month.

The silence in the kitchen was awkward, but Charles found himself enjoying the two people with him. He was accustomed to Hank's thoughts, but Anne's added a new level of peace. She wasn't entirely comfortable with his home—or with him—but she was enjoying the morning. Much of her attention was taken up with either wondering about the grounds, wondering what he had in his pantry, and thinking about buying a nightgown and how to get one without embarrassing herself in front of Hank.

At that, Charles withdrew from monitoring her thoughts and finished his breakfast. Hank took his cue, and Anne had already taken her plate to the sink and rinsed it. She slipped out after asking Hank to give her two hours, and Charles watched her go. Lowering his voice, he leaned toward Hank. "Find a department store. Trust me. She won't ask, but she's got a few things she needs to get."

Hank stared at him. "You said you'd give her privacy."

"She was shouting about it in her mind." Charles shrugged. "Besides, from what I remember about Anne, she's intensely private. She won't ask about something and would rather go without."

Hank nodded at that and also rinsed his plate and left the room, leaving Charles to wash the few dishes and then head back to his bedroom.

The place needed light. Choosing to solve that problem first, Charles wheeled over to the window seat and opened the curtains much as he had in the music room just a few days ago. Anne had returned downstairs and was clearly compiling a grocery list, and Charles thought to stop her. But he didn't feel like explaining that he barely ate much in the evenings and had virtually no appetite any other time of the day. Breakfast that morning had been a luxury he rarely allowed himself, and he pushed away any thought that it was unhealthy.

With sunlight streaming into his bedroom, the true state of the place hit him. The bed had clean sheets and blankets, the bedside tables had been dusted and cleared. But garbage and shoes littered the floors, and the chair where he'd injected Hank's serum still sat, waiting for him to prop himself in the corner. Today, sitting in the light of a bright morning and wearing clothing more suited to his time in Oxford, Charles Xavier faced the truth.

It was going to take a very long time to get himself straightened out. But he could do it. Cleaning this room was the first step.

~oOo~

Anne Conrad wasn't accustomed to anyone making decisions for her. For the last ten years, she had lived on her own, rarely asking for help, and had struggled to make something of her life. So, when Hank McCoy pulled into the parking lot of a small department store, she frowned at him.

He shrugged. "Blame Charles. He said you might need a few things here."

Anne blinked and then flushed, pushing out of the car before she said something she'd regret. Of all the arrogant things to do! Assuming that, because she wasn't as refined as he had always been, she'd need clothing just to fit into his house! It wasn't like she was there to impress him or anything. Charles had hired her— _hired_ her—to help him recover from drug and alcohol addiction. He was no perfectly-clothed specimen himself. Odds were good he dressed for breakfast that morning just because she was there. She'd seen bits and pieces of his house. It was cluttered, dirty, and looked like a bunch of squatters had been living there for years.

At least her rooms were clean.

Anne drew up short, just inside the store. _How_ had he known? Just that morning, after waking up to bright sunshine and a strange room, she'd stood in front of the mirror in her dressing room and stared. Somehow, surrounded by the opulence of the Xavier home, she felt entirely awkward wearing a dorm shirt. And, at breakfast, she had been wondering how to sneak away from Hank during this shopping trip and purchase a proper nightgown and robe so that, should Charles need help in the middle of the night, she wouldn't feel so out of place with her casual—and revealing—attire.

Calm now and a bit unnerved by his consideration, Anne hurried to the women's section and made her selections. She eyed the price tag, wondering if she should spend the money. But Charles was paying her well, and she had gone so long without truly spoiling herself. So, she went ahead and bought the ankle-length white nightgown and robe. Then, with the bag securely closed, she hurried back to where Hank waited patiently, reading a book.

Sliding into the passenger seat, she grinned at him. "You know, you don't have to pretend to be my chauffeur."

He returned the smile. "Right now, that's what I am. But you'll learn your way around soon."

She hoped so.

At the grocery store, she started at one side of the store and worked her way to the other. Hank followed her, frowning when he realized she intended to buy actual groceries. "You don't have to do this."

Anne turned to stare at him. "Hank, why did I come here?"

He frowned. "To help Charles."

"Right. And what was one of the first things to go when the depression hit?"

"His appetite." Hank grinned at that.

When she saw realization dawning, she nodded. "Getting him to eat a healthy diet is crucial to helping him recover. You can tell me if he's got any dietary requirements or restrictions on his health, but he needs to start _eating_. The best way I can do that is to make breakfast and dinner."

"He won't like it."

"He doesn't have to." Anne whirled around and started pushing the buggy down the aisle. "He just has to eat."

Somehow, Hank managed to make his snort sound like a growl.

Grocery shopping finished up with little fanfare, and Anne helped Hank pack the sacks into the car. Back at the mansion, she carted several of them inside before running up the stairs to stash her new evening wear in her bedroom. Then, she rushed back downstairs, checking her watch as she went. It was barely noon, and she had plans for dinner.

Hank slipped out of the kitchen to check on Charles, and Anne tied her hair up into a bun. Then, she started working. She put groceries away, chopped onion, browned some ground beef in a pan, added tomatoes, spices, water, and a touch of sugar, and then set it to simmer. With spaghetti sauce cooking for supper, she started on everything else. Sweeping produced a truly impressive pile of debris from the pantry corners, and the entire contents of the fridge ended up on the table for a time. Then, she tackled the cabinets, the hanging pots and pans, and the counter tops. By the time the sauce had simmered for nearly five hours, everything in the kitchen sparkled and smelled clean.

Wishing she could just curl up in bed—dorm shirt or not—Anne set water on to boil for the spaghetti noodles and started grating a chunk of Parmesan cheese. Slices of French bread spread with butter and sprinkled with garlic and basil went into the oven, and a green salad took shape without much thought. It was a meal she'd made for herself numerous times, always with left-overs for the next few days.

With water not quite boiling and her back and shoulders throbbing from the scouring she'd done, Anne settled at the table to wait. The coming meal would likely be a fight, and she truthfully didn't have the strength to handle it.

~oOo~

When Hank appeared in the doorway of his study, Charles realized what he had done. He had left his bedroom virtually spotless save for the floors and had come in here to start cleaning. However, the multiple trips to the washing machine had worn him out, and he found himself staring absentmindedly at his desk instead of being where he told Hank he would be. He looked up, careful to meet Hank's gaze, and shook his head. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting to be stuck."

Hank frowned at him. "Stuck?"

"Yes." Charles leaned forward and started collecting obvious trash from his desk. "I finished in my room and had the brilliant idea of cleaning this one, too. My motivation vanished."

Hank smirked at that. "Is there anything you need before I head down to the lab?"

"A broom and mop in my room." Charles shrugged. "But something tells me that Anne won't be happy to surrender either of them, though."

Hank shook his head. "I hope you're ready for a fight, Charles. She's got plans to cook every day, make sure you eat, and see this place cleaned. And that's what I figured out from what she was buying at the store."

Charles met his eyes. "She's doing her job, Hank. That's why I hired her." He shrugged. "Well, not the cleaning part, but she's doing what she can to make this house livable again, as well as pull me out of this pit I'm in. Don't worry about her. If I find she's doing something she shouldn't, I'll speak with her."

Hank sat down in a chair, his plans to go to the lab forgotten. "You know her pretty well."

"From Oxford." Charles let his mind travel those paths yet again that day, remembering. He had left Raven exhausted from a long day at work to go to the library to study. He was always studying and had shelves of books in his small flat. But Raven was snoring, and Charles wanted some quiet. So, he slipped into the still-bright library and found only one other student working: a young woman with dark hair that barely brushed her shoulders and dark shadows under her brown eyes. Not truly wanting to be alone, Charles asked if he could join her at the table, and she gave him a wary glance. He also felt her assessment: nice clothes, refined accent, and books tucked under his arm. She nodded, not speaking, and went back to her studying, more concerned about him than she should have been.

That became the pattern. At least once a week, he would slip out to the library and find Anne. It took four weeks before she told him her name, though he'd learned it during that first night. And it was another four before he realized why she kept to herself, barely spoke, and startled if he moved too quickly. She'd had such good control over her thoughts, usually from losing herself in her studies, that he had been surprised by the revelation. It had changed their friendship.

Now, Charles shook his head as he looked at Hank. "The details are hers to tell," he said. "Suffice it to say that she's had her share of struggles. And, if she seems overly independent, she has every reason."

Hank had listened to him ramble for a time, a slightly satisfied expression on his face. But he now frowned. "She needs a car, Charles. She won't be satisfied to let me cart her around for long."

Charles narrowed his eyes. His friend was right, and there were three perfectly good, albeit older, vehicles sitting in the garage. "I'll make sure she's got keys to the Mercedes."

Without another word about Anne or his decision, Hank excused himself and headed for his lab. Realizing he wouldn't get much done in the study, Charles followed, choosing to turn toward Cerebro and the relative silence there. As he drew in a dust-filled breath, he smiled. It felt good to have people around him again, even if it was just two friends.

Where was Logan? The question occurred to Charles as he stared at the helmet that attached his mind to Cerebro. It had been that man—that mutant with rough ways and passion in his heart—that yanked Charles out of his despair and self-pity. Even now, he remembered talking with Raven, using Cerebro to enhance his powers while Hank and Logan stood behind him. The tall man with claws coming out of his fists at times had managed to do for Charles what no one else had been able to do, and he had a promise he intended to keep. But how? He'd tried hiring a private investigator. He'd found nothing. And he had no idea exactly where Erik had tossed him.

Besides, how did this whole future thing work? Was Logan dead, or did he revert back to his old self? Back to the one that Charles had glimpsed in Paris? Even now, he could see the idiocy of his excuse to Logan. _You're on acid. Somebody gave you really bad acid. Yeah?_ Logan hadn't believed him then, and Charles doubted the man would believe him when he did finally find him. _If_ he found him.

Charles lost hours in his thoughts, not paying attention to the echoes of Anne's mind or Hank's equations, preferring to brood in silence. This time, however, he didn't have the aid of the serum or alcohol to muddle his thoughts. He just kept going round and round in circles, wishing he could find a place to hop off of the ride.

Then, he sensed it. Looking up, he realized that the impressions he'd been picking up from Anne had changed, becoming a little more uncertain and a lot more tired. Turning his chair around, he rolled to Hank's lab and rapped on the door. When Hank turned, he grinned. "Dinner's ready. And Anne won't find us down here."

Hank nodded and motioned toward what he was working on. "Head to your study. I'll meet you there?"

Charles understood. While Anne was an old friend of his, she was also unaware that either of them were mutants. It would not do for them to just show up as if they'd heard a call she hadn't given them. However, when he reached his study, the delicious scent of Italian floated from the kitchen, and he found himself drawn there anyway. He knew Hank wouldn't be far behind him based on the absolutely amazing fragrance coming from the stove.

Anne had set three places at the table, the napkins folded neatly with a bowl of green salad in the middle. Wine glasses waited at each setting, though the pitcher had iced tea in it rather than alcohol. And Anne stood behind the stove, carefully piling slices of garlic bread into a basket. She glanced up, her face absolutely exhausted. "I was just about to come find you."

Charles smiled. "I figured." He narrowed his eyes, looking around. The kitchen sparkled in the early evening sun. "You didn't have to clean."

Anne's eyes sparked at him, showing her irritation. "Yes, I did."

"I suppose reminding you that two bachelors live in this house would do no good."

"No, it would not." But her voice wasn't as prim as she hoped, and her vowels were wandering.

Hank appeared a moment later, his eyes wide as he realized just how much work Anne had done. "Nice job," he said somewhat awkwardly, picking up on the tension between Charles and Anne. Or was it teasing? Charles couldn't be certain with Anne's thoughts so muddled after her work that day. But, whatever it was, he enjoyed having someone talk back to him without fear of "the professor" trying to reprimand them.

She insisted on serving their plates, filling Hank's to capacity while keeping Charles's portion a bit smaller. And he was grateful. It had been a long time since he had eaten more than a quarter of the food Hank tried to shove down his throat and knew he'd struggle to clean his plate. But seeing Anne wilt into her chair, her own plate before her, he promised himself that he would try.

By the time the trio finished their meal, Anne had drooped so far that she looked about ready to fall asleep in her plate. Cleaning the kitchen, as well as the shopping trip that day, had taken everything out of her. Charles leaned forward just enough to catch her eye. "Go on upstairs," he said softly. "Hank and I will clean up."

When she straightened and opened her mouth to protest, he reached for her hand, clearly surprising her. "I mean it. We'll make sure the kitchen is set to rights."

"You better." She would have liked her tone to be a bit more commanding, but it failed miserably when a yawn interrupted. Ducking her head so she wasn't rude, she slipped out of her chair and slowly climbed the stairs. Charles followed her with his mind, leaving her to herself when she began drawing a hot bath.

By the time he and Hank finished their meal, packed the leftovers in the fridge, and washed the dishes, Anne had fallen asleep in her bed. Content that the day had gone better than he'd expected, Charles retired for the night, smiling with a sense of accomplishment. He'd cleaned his room, eaten two good meals, and spent time with other people. He was improving.

He refused to think about how much those thoughts made him sound like a rebellious teenager or a dog that needed training. Instead, he fell asleep hoping to hear the tea kettle in the morning and to share overly-strong tea with Anne. Somehow, having another person at the table made it seem a little less lonely.

~TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Apologies for not posting on Monday. My hubby and I ended up with a mild but really weird case of food poisoning, and it took two days to recover.

As always, thank you for your reviews. I can't respond to all of them right now, but I have received them all. To d: That is a wonderful idea! And really good point. I have the perfect place to insert it. Thank you for your input.

Enjoy! And don't forget to tell me what you think! ~lg

~oOo~

The rising sun woke Anne from a sound sleep, and she frowned when she realized it had barely peeked over the horizon. Rolling over in bed, an involuntary groan escaped her lips as her back, legs, and shoulders protested all of the work she had done yesterday. But the kitchen was clean, and she could cook two decent meals each day. It was enough for now, and she instantly began thinking about the dining room she had already examined while waiting for supper to cook.

That room was, oddly enough, neglected but not trashed. It looked as if Charles and Hank had not set foot in there for nearly five years, and the cleaning would probably go quicker. Which she appreciated. While the hot bath last night had helped with sore muscles, Anne hoped to get a little more reading or, perhaps, some knitting done. She'd brought her knitting bag, but the shawl she wanted finished had sat there for the last two days while she began this new job.

Where in this house would knitting work, though? Anne sat up and looked around. This wasn't a house where handmade items draped over the back of the couch while a woman wound yarn onto a spinning wheel. Was it? Charles seemed intent on making her comfortable and welcoming her into his world. But she wondered just how _he_ was supposed to fit into _her_ world.

Shoving away her thoughts as she pushed back the blankets, Anne stood with another groan. Taking a few moments to stretch to her fullest, she smiled when her nightgown brushed her lower legs. With the kinks of the night pulled out of her muscles, she forced herself to walk into her dressing room, shaking her head. _What has just happened? I have an actual_ _dressing room_ _?!_ She could hardly believe it even while standing in the other room. A quick glance in the mirror revealed a different woman than had stood there the day before. Yesterday, she'd looked downright frumpy with her hair around her shoulders and a baggy dorm shirt over her body. Today, she wore a long white gown that hugged her curves, its tiny straps accenting her shoulders and the pristine color making her tousled hair seem attractive.

Her aching muscles reminded her that she needed to walk, and she reached for the matching robe that went with the nightgown. It was the same white satin, but the back hem hung just a touch longer. It matched the house, honestly, as it trailed behind her and made Anne feel more refined, more like she belonged.

Walking down the stairs to the main floor of the house, she smiled. Morning sunlight, bright and fresh, slanted through windows in rays that showed the work that had been done. The floors glowed from where Hank had mopped during the previous evening, and more curtains had been removed. Somewhere, a grandfather clock ticked, and several smaller clocks echoed in the silence. From her spot at the base of the staircase, she could hear the birds outside. Anne closed her eyes for a moment, trying her best to absorb the feel of crisp morning air, the quiet of the house, and the perfection of this moment.

Then, moving away from the kitchen, she crept down a hall toward the one room she would never enter without an invitation. The door was cracked as if it hadn't latched the night before, and she didn't open it any further. But the sound of rhythmic breathing and a light snore told her that Charles slept peacefully. She could barely see sunshine also pouring into his bedroom from a west-facing window, but it had obviously not reached him yet.

Thankful that he seemed to be resting, Anne turned and hurried to the kitchen. That room was bright with white paint and appliances, all of them a few years old. The cleaning she'd given it the day before made it seem less abandoned and more like an actual farmhouse kitchen. A fruit basket on the heavy wooden table added color, and she spotted a truck arriving, filled with the groundskeepers. A door led to the back of the house, an easy place to enter when bringing in the groceries. But no machines interrupted the morning just yet, and it seemed like a perfect country house. _Yeah, with a very wealthy owner who can hire his friends to cook and clean for him_.

The thought disturbed Anne, and she reached for the tea kettle, filling it with water and setting it on the stove to heat. Charles had never truly flaunted his wealth, even in hiring her. If anything, he had tried to put her at ease in spite of the opulence around her. He had made her arrival about _him_ rather than her luxurious accommodations, about his need instead of her meager existence, and about how she could actually offer more than his money could buy. Thinking of him like a spoiled child would not help her to help him. Not in the least.

A soft tap on the back door brought her from her thoughts. She peeked through the sheer curtain and saw the foreman of the groundskeepers. He waited with his head turned away, smiling when she cracked the door. "Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. But this was waiting at the gate, and I figured Mr. Xavier would like it."

Anne blinked at the newspaper he offered, taking it with a smile. "Thank you," she said softly.

The foreman stepped back, tipping his head, and Anne almost giggled when she realized that he thought she and Charles were. . .what? Married? Dating? Either way, he mistook her for more than an employee and friend, and she flushed at the implications.

Setting the newspaper on the table, Anne pulled out the same Blue Willow teapot that she'd used the previous morning. She loved the blue and white design and wondered about its history. A small bowl of lemons, the sugar dish, and creamer went on a silver tray, and she measured out the loose-leaf tea she'd bought just the day before. Charles hadn't minded the old tea she'd made yesterday, but Anne looked forward to this cup.

The kettle whistled before she could get to it, and she snatched it off the stove as quickly as she could. Her hand brushed against the hot surface, and she glared at the light burn. A glance out the door and a momentary listen told her that no one had stirred yet, and she poured the water into the teapot and covered it with a thick towel. Then, she hurried upstairs to dress for the day.

Once back in the kitchen, she found the tea brewed to Charles's preference. She fished out the cheesecloth she'd used to hold the tea, and pulled bagels, fruit, and cream cheese from the refrigerator. She thought about making some bacon but decided against it as neither Hank nor Charles had complained about her light fare the previous day.

She had just finished toasting the bagels when Charles wheeled into the kitchen. Today, he wore a blue button-down shirt and gray slacks, his hair still a bit unkempt but obviously finger-combed. He had also put on shoes instead of his typical house slippers, and a smile touched his face as he looked for her. "You know you don't have to cook for us every morning."

Anne straightened with a grin. "If it gets you up and going on a good day, yes, I do."

Charles sighed. "Anne, I didn't hire you to be my cook. Or my housekeeper."

"No, Charles, you didn't." She settled at the table rather than getting plates, cups, and saucers for their meal. "You asked me to come help you get out of your depression, and I'm happy to do so. I'm no psychologist, but even I know that living in perpetual gloom and dust is unhealthy. So, my way of helping you initially is being here if you have a medical need and meeting those other needs that I can. Such as making certain you have a decent breakfast and supper." She sat back. "Lunch is all up to you."

Charles watched her as she went to get their plates and cups, his face scrunched up in confusion. Anne ignored him, preferring to keep busy instead of enduring his questioning glances. She'd seen them before, back when she and Franklin had been living together in Oxford. Now, she saw them again, but in a different light. Was he regretting hiring her? Was what she was doing any help at all?

By the time she turned back, he had wiped the questioning expression from his face. He thanked her for getting the plates and helped set the table. Then, he proceeded to pour both of their tea, glancing over when he noticed the lightness of the brew. "You realize I haven't eaten a proper breakfast in years."

"Why do you think I didn't load your plate with something heavy?" Anne took her cup and saucer, surprised that he'd made it just the way she liked it, and allowed herself to sit back in her chair. "I remember coming back to the States to find out I had to do things all by myself. Getting up in the morning and eating. . . ." She let her eyes lose focus a bit, her gaze not truly on him or the tea set. "Well, let's just say it's harder than people think. When you're accustomed to someone else, having a family, and never being alone, suddenly cooking for just one or eating by yourself. . .It's devastating." _If you even get that opportunity. Sometimes, it's worse._

A scowl had come onto his face as she spoke. He leaned forward, his blue eyes so piercing she wondered if he really could read her thoughts. "Was it so terrible? Coming home from Oxford?"

Anne laughed, an unhappy sound that had an old pain attached to it. She had the story she told friends, the one that kept the truth hidden for a while longer. "I didn't think it would be. But my parents learned what I'd done—how I'd allowed myself to 'be corrupted,' as they termed it—and they turned me out." She reached for a cooling bagel and the cream cheese, choosing not to look at him as she answered his question. "For a long time, I lived by what I could, staying with friends until I got on my feet. But I wasn't ready. Oxford, living in my parents' big house. . . .none of it really prepared me for the world out there."

Charles listened as intensely as he had when they had been in university together. "And Franklin?" he asked softly, though she had the impression he wanted to ask something else.

Anne snorted at that. "I don't know, and I don't care." She looked up then, not afraid to let Charles see just how hurt and angry she still was at the man. "It took a long time to get up the nerve to leave him, and it was the best thing I could have done. No matter what happened after that." She felt a blush building but knew she needed to say the next bit. "I have you to thank for that, by the way."

Charles actually laughed, clearly embarrassed based on how he shifted in his chair and reached for a second bagel. "Me?"

"Yes." She pushed aside her breakfast for a moment. "Charles, I wasn't going to tell you this until much later, maybe when it wouldn't sound like I was trying to take advantage of you. And I'm not. But you've got to understand something about me." She drew in a deep breath, waiting until he looked up at her in confusion. "It wasn't me that had the courage to leave England. It wasn't anything _I_ did. I met a young man who showed me that Franklin wasn't the only way to live, that I could be worth something and _do_ something with my life. He showed me that men don't just take what they want from women, no matter what was taken from me then or after. And _he's_ the one that gave me the courage to leave."

Charles chuckled again. "Anne, that was all you."

"No, it wasn't." She shook her head. "I'm here because you're my friend, and I owe you a debt. One I intend to see paid back in any way I can. If that means I cook and clean, then I cook and clean. If it means I get to slap you upside the head every now and then, well. . . ." She grinned at that, deliberately lightening the mood with the joke.

This time, Charles let out a genuine laugh. "Okay, I don't think that will be necessary." He stared at her for a moment, a smile on his face. "But thank you."

 _And you don't owe me a debt._ Anne could almost hear his voice in her head. It was something he would say, but he didn't.

A few moments later, Hank made his way into the kitchen, still blinking in the sunshine. Charles looked at his friend and smirked at Anne. "Looks like I'm not the only person you're intent on turning into an early riser."

Hank actually growled at Charles, took his plate and tea, and left the kitchen, still more or less asleep on his feet. The pair at the table watched him go, both grinning in genuine amusement. Then, Charles noticed the newspaper. He frowned. "What's this?"

Anne shrugged. "The grounds foreman said it was delivered to the front gate this morning." She flushed then, realizing just how it looked from the outside. This morning—and yesterday, for that matter—she and Charles had sat side by side at the table, chatting and laughing about something. No wonder the guy had assumed she lived here as. . .what? The mistress of the house? Or that she was merely visiting Charles for a few nights? Anne wanted to laugh at that and chose to swallow her amusement along with a sip of tea. Still, as soon as her bagel was finished, she pushed away from the table, startling Charles from his close scrutiny of the daily news.

He frowned. "What's on the schedule for today?"

"The dining room." Anne rinsed her plate and left it sit, prepared to clean it up that evening.

Charles watched her move, clearly concerned. "Don't overdo," he cautioned her.

She stared at him. "I won't." When he seemed to doubt her, she held up a hand. "I promise I won't."

"Better." He went back to the paper, leaving her to her day. But, when she reached the door of the kitchen, he stirred again. "Oh, Anne?" He held up a hand when she turned. "These are for you. For the next time you need to go to town."

Anne automatically reached out, staring at the keys he deposited in her palm. "Charles, you don't. . . ."

"You don't have a car of your own, and I have three that are not being used." He shrugged. "Feel free to take it whenever you need, even if it is just to go for a drive."

She blinked a few times and then met his eyes. "Thank you."

And she meant it. This was just another example of the man Charles Xavier really was beneath the shaggy hair and recovering addict. He saw a need in his friends and did his best to fill that need. Even if it meant entrusting a very expensive item to them. To Charles, it wasn't about the money, and Anne found herself grateful she'd accepted the job.

A few moments later, she stood in the dining room and wondered if she really was as thankful as she'd thought.

~oOo~

That evening, Anne served rice pilaf, baked chicken, and steamed vegetables in the glittering dining room. The wood panels reflected the light of the chandelier—which she had obviously cleaned—and the dirty, moth-eaten drapes had been replaced with slightly newer, much cleaner ones. The table had been oiled from top to bottom, and the parquet floors practically glowed as Charles wheeled his way into the room. Steam rose from the plates Anne had just set on the table, and he shook his head. This was incredible. The woman had managed to take this room from dusty and unused to a welcoming atmosphere in spite of its emptiness in just one day.

Said woman waited for him to finish taking in the changes. Charles took a moment to truly study the room, seeing how she'd even dusted his mother's china and replaced it in its original positions. The china cabinet, sideboard, mantle on the fireplace, paintings on the walls, cushions on the chairs. . .everything looked just as it had the day he returned from Cuba.

Seeing the uncertainty on her face, he forced himself to smile in spite of his memories of that time. "Supper smells incredible."

Relief covered Anne's expression, and she motioned to the head of the table, where she had removed a chair to make room for his wheelchair. Hank took a spot on his left, leaving Anne to settle to his right. Charles frowned, not liking the formality of it but unwilling to make a big deal since Anne had seen fit to serve their evening meal in that room.

A few moments later, he was grateful he hadn't. She began asking Hank about how he and Charles had met, and the two men kept her entertained with modified versions of their first meeting. Nothing was said about either man's mutations, and many of the difficult times—namely how Charles ended up in the wheelchair—were avoided. Instead, they focused on the times since 1962 when laughter had all but overtaken them. The conversation moved from there to some of Charles's escapades in Oxford, and Raven was even mentioned a time or two. By the time the two men sent Anne upstairs to rest, Charles had finally relaxed for the evening.

And so the days passed. Each day, another public room of the house was cleaned, though some of them took longer than others. Anne chose to finish the work in the entrance of the home, spending hours cleaning the floor around his family's coat of arms and then finding a tall ladder to wash windows dimmed by age. Charles tried to help in his own way, wheeling through to watch her work while he tackled the library. He still hadn't started on his study, but that room had more memories than most. Instead, he spent the week slowly dusting the books he could reach and making a note to ask Hank about how he could extend his reach. Anne, sensing his desire to be helpful, entered the library only when she wanted to read a book or needed to ask him something.

A week later, the library was done save for the upper shelves and light fixtures. Charles looked over his handiwork, surprised at how much of a difference the week had made. He'd grown accustomed to Anne's thoughts throughout the day and knew when she'd slipped into "work mode." Most of the time, she had a small radio with her, listening to whatever station struck her fancy. Some days, it was news and politics, a topic that interested Charles for more reasons than simply knowing what was happening in the world. Others, she chose music. He'd learned that her mood that morning indicated the type of night she'd had, and she always greeted him with hot tea and a bagel, subtly increasing the amount of fruit she prepared as he began to eat more.

Charles also noticed a difference in Hank. The scientist seemed a little less awkward, though he still growled in the morning. But he refused to sleep through breakfast, usually joining Charles and Anne every other day. Charles knew it depended on how late Hank stayed up the previous night, working on whatever he wanted in his lab. But Anne's presence had impacted the other man as much as it had the house, and Hank seemed to be moving past his lingering grief over Raven's actions and the guilt over his perceived complicity in her betrayal.

Charles, however, found the biggest change in himself. With the house being clean, he found that he looked forward to each day in spite of his limitations. He actually dressed each morning, enjoyed the breakfast Anne made, and fought to keep from snickering every time she wondered how long it would take the groundskeepers to figure out she wasn't. . . .How did she put it? The "mistress of the house?" While a part of him wanted to correct that assumption by his employees, another part of him wondered if it could happen. He had always trusted Anne, always been drawn to her, and always enjoyed her company. Now, with his disabilities, could he find it in himself to, perhaps, love again?

Charles pushed away the thought as he rolled toward his study. He hadn't allowed Moira, a woman who had taken him by storm during his recovery from the shooting, to stay. But she had been CIA, required by law to tell her agency where he lived and what he planned to do. He couldn't have his home's location—or the safety of his students at the time—compromised because of his own desires. But Anne was different. She wasn't CIA or anyone with any contacts. If anything, she was as friendless and lost as he found himself, just with a different way of coping with the loneliness.

Something from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Charles stopped his chair so suddenly he felt it slip on the newly-polished floor. Then, he turned to make certain he had seen what he thought he'd seen.

Anne had found a ladder somewhere and was perched precariously at the top, reaching toward the highest crystals of the chandelier in the music room. That ceiling was at least twenty feet high, and she had managed to clean almost every crystal on the light. The radio on the ground belted out a song by the Temptations, and she seemed oblivious to everything around her. But the ladder, an A-frame that she'd locked in place, rocked slightly with her movements, and Charles saw one of the feet slipping.

Waiting until she wasn't so precariously perched, he rolled into the room. " _What_ are you doing?!" His voice echoed, and he winced when he realized how loudly he'd spoken.

Anne startled, grabbing the top of the ladder, and stared down at him. Then, she let out a deep breath, her sudden fear of falling nearly overwhelming him. She looked away, giving him a moment to force himself to breathe and clear any expression but absolute shock from his face. Then, she laughed lightly, an understandable reaction to the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "What does it look like, Charles? This needed to be cleaned, and I couldn't find Hank to ask him."

Charles eyed the ladder. "Something tells me you haven't asked him to clean a single thing."

"I haven't." She climbed down after determining that every crystal on the chandelier sparkled in the late-afternoon sun. "I haven't needed to, frankly." Then, she frowned. "And you can wipe that look from your face. I'm not helpless, and I refuse to act like it."

Charles sighed at the wave of determination that swept from her and over his mind. She was gearing up for a real fight, something he wasn't certain would be beneficial to either of them. Over the week, he'd seen what the house did to her, how she tried to become more refined to fit in, and how she had a need to have any reminder of her former life gone. He had brought her here to help him, but he realized now that she needed as much help, perhaps in a different way. "Anne," he began, doing his best to soften his voice rather than shouting at her, "I appreciate all you're doing here. Really, I do. But if you need help, I'm happy to hire someone to help you."

"That's just it, Charles." She began gathering her cleaning supplies, annoyance rippling toward him. "I don't need help. I am perfectly capable of caring for myself, no matter what anyone thinks. And I'm not used to having other people do for me. Not when I have two good hands that can do the work."

He was thankful she didn't add two good feet to that statement. "That's not what I'm trying to say."

"That _is_ what you're saying!" Her voice turned forceful but soft. "I'm not some dainty flower that will wilt at the first sign of work, and you need to understand that. I put myself through school when I came home, became a nurse, and lived by that profession until a week ago. Cleaning your house, while a lot more physical than what I was doing at the time, is _easy_." _At least I'm not being vomited on, cleaning up after people who can't hold it, people who are bleeding, or people who just think that I exist to serve them._

That last bit caused Charles to blink and frown deeply. He tried to breathe his way through the latent anger she'd unleashed on him and thought back to how he'd been treating her. Except for a few occasions, he had not limited her from doing anything around the house.

She sighed as if trying to let go of the irritation, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to attack you."

"Well, you did a very good job of it." Charles added a slight chuckle to soften that blow. Then, he leaned forward and managed to capture her hand, noting the roughness of her skin and ignoring the smell of glass cleaner. "Anne, I wasn't trying to throw money around or limit what you can or cannot do in this house. If you feel you need to clean, then clean. I'm just asking that you allow others to help when you need it. For example, have Hank clean the chandeliers." He held up a hand. "For my own peace of mind as much as anything."

She clenched her jaw as if to protest, but she stopped when he squeezed her hand gently.

Still craning his neck to look up at her, he added, "Please."

She squeezed his hand before releasing it, laughing as she shook her head. "You really know how to use those baby blues, don't you?"

Charles frowned, this time completely confused by her statement. "I'm sorry?"

"Never mind." A flush covered her cheeks, and he saw himself, at least ten years younger, staring at her with such earnest care and persuasion in his eyes. _That_ was what she'd seen in him while in Oxford? He blinked, thankful she still hadn't turned his way to see the sheepish expression—and the slight bit of embarrassment over his current circumstances—that flickered across his face.

He watched as she moved on to the next job—dusting the old grand piano—and sighed. The argument had not been forgotten, but she felt as if it had been resolved. At least, for the moment. He waited until she looked up at him. "I'll find Hank for you and make certain he's available when you need a chandelier cleaned." Charles eyed the ladder. "Just please, for my sake, don't go climbing ladders older than I am on slick floors. I'd rather Hank lug the heavy one inside." _And I'm grateful that there_ _is_ _a heavy one to use as cover for Hank's blue form_. _Because Heaven knows he won't use a ladder._

Anne held his gaze for a moment, her chocolate brown eyes showing she wanted to be mutinous but understood why he asked. "Okay," she said finally. "I'll ask Hank to clean the chandeliers, and I'll be a little more careful."

Content that he'd made as much progress as he was going to, Charles backed out of the room, shaking his head. Anne was still irritated over his request, but her thoughts weren't too irrational. Or, rather, they moved on from the irritation to her memories of him in Oxford. Did she really think he was the perfect example of a true gentleman? She was in for a sad revelation!

Heading down to Hank's laboratory, Charles let out another deep breath and rubbed his forehead. Somehow, he suspected he and Anne were going to clash over a great many things during her time here. And, for some reason, he almost anticipated the fight.

~TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Thank you for the reviews. I'm glad everyone is enjoying the story! ~lg

~oOo~

Three more days passed quietly, during which Charles made an honest effort to clean his study. But, for some reason, he struggled to get that room finished. Perhaps it was the hours he'd spent in there, planning and building the school. Or maybe the times he'd gotten so drunk he barely remembered where he was. Or, possibly, because Hank brought the serum to him while he was in the study and showed him what it could do. No matter the reason, Charles decided that cleaning the study would take time. A lot of time. And he abandoned it in favor of his room on the second floor.

Once there, he took a good look around. It had remained untouched for the better part of ten years. Just recently, when Logan showed up, Charles had gone inside to find clothing that would fit a visit to the White House lawn. But, other than that, it had collected dust since he left for Cuba in 1962.

Now, he sat in the doorway and looked around. He could still see his own footprints on the floor, moving to the closet and back out. The huge, four-poster bed seemed lost in the massive room, which was larger than the one he inhabited now. A moth-eaten navy blue bedspread showed its age, and the Tiffany lamps on the bedside tables waited to be lit. Moving slowly to the window, Charles pushed back the memories of this place as he tugged at the curtains. He'd played here as a lad, seeing this room as his safe haven against all the voices that invaded his mind when he was nine. In those days, he envisioned this room as his castle, and it had worked. He had learned to disguise his own talents, keeping them from his step-father who cared nothing for him. Still, as the eldest child, he inherited the family's wealth, choosing to split it with his step-brother. Now, only he remained.

As he grew into a young man, the room became his sanctuary, a place he could retreat between semesters in Oxford, where Raven even hesitated to enter, where he could study and dream and, sometimes, experiment with his own powers. Then, after returning from Russia with Moira MacTaggart and the rest of the team, it had become a place where he let go of the Charles Xavier that everyone else saw and became the Charles Xavier he wished he was.

Maybe the drugs had done him one favor. They had stripped away the facade, leaving only him behind. Even now, he didn't have the strength to put on the strong mask.

Bright sunlight poured into the room as he looked around, letting go of the castle image in his head. Suddenly, he could feel Hank down in his laboratory and Anne checking something simmering on the stove for their evening meal. Frowning, he recreated the castle image, and the voices muted.

"Why did I never think of that?" he asked himself, his voice soft in the room.

It made perfect sense, actually. Emma Frost had possessed her shields in the form of diamonds, impenetrable. Charles, however, had built a veritable fortress in his mind, one that had been breached so many times that he barely remembered it was there.

 _No more_ , he decided. If he could learn to shield his own mind wherever he went, he could find a way to bear the pain and still survive. He wouldn't need to hide in this house, becoming a drug-addled recluse too afraid of his own shadow. All he'd hear would be what people thought in the moment, like overhearing multiple conversations when moving through a crowd. And that was manageable.

As he worked to wipe the dust from the surfaces and used warm water and soap to clean the lampshades, Charles looked at the furniture. He needed a proper bed, not the mattress and box springs he'd tossed on the floor downstairs. And a dresser. He had a closet that he'd already sorted out, so the wardrobe could stay up here. But the rest of the furniture should be brought below stairs so that he'd feel as if he had a bedroom again, not an invalid's room.

Decision made, he wheeled his way toward the lift, intent on finding Hank and arranging for the furniture to be brought down stairs. He started on the main floor, not letting go of the castle he'd built in his mind. So far, his idea—far from brilliant and long overdue—seemed to be working. In fact, it worked so well that the sound of someone hitting a key on the grand piano startled him.

Charles stopped his chair, frowning. Anne must be cleaning in the music room. But she had already done so, as evidenced by their disagreement about whether she should clean the chandeliers or not. Why would she wait until now to dust and clean the piano?

Another note echoed through the house, the tone nowhere near true as the strings had been neglected for so long. Charles waited, thinking it was simply a mistake but hoping it wasn't, and he was rewarded when someone—likely Anne—played a flourishing scale, walking up and down the off-key notes with a familiarity that sounded comfortable.

 _Hank can wait_ , Charles decided, and he turned his chair around. He had barely begun to move toward the music room when full chords and scales began pouring from the piano, the out-of-tune strings struggling to keep up with the melody. Without meaning to, Charles began to sing the words of the hymn in his mind.

 _Amazing grace!  
_ _How sweet the sound  
_ _That saved a wretch like me!  
_ _I once was lost,  
_ _But now I'm found.  
_ _'Twas blind,  
_ _But now I see._

He stopped just out of sight from the door and let the castle in his mind dissipate. He sensed Anne sitting at the piano and playing from memory. The peacefulness and longing that swept over him and streamed from the music room brought tears to his eyes. How often had the joy or tenderness of someone's memory overwhelmed him like this? Not in recent days, he knew. In recent days, it had been pain and hardship. But this. . .He sat for a long time, unwilling to interrupt her while the hymn played over and over again. He sensed Hank coming upstairs, saw the other man halt when he spotted Charles, and then watched as Hank retreated to the library. Still within earshot. For them, it didn't matter that the piano was out of tune or that the occasional chord was a touch off beat. The music drew them, soothed them, and somehow helped them feel less isolated.

Charles wished he could capture the earnest feeling of peace that Anne put into her music.

How? He'd never suspected she was musical, let alone played the piano. But it had been over ten years since he'd last seen her, and their conversations in Oxford hadn't tended toward music. No wonder she had a radio playing when she worked.

Her music changed, became softer, and Charles plucked the name of it from her mind. Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_. He continued to listen, just as moved as before. Her mind showed images of a soft night, the moon shining across the back of his property, and the image of a lonely woman walking outside just for a breath of fresh air. Between the hymn and the sonata, Charles felt as if all of his emotions had been upended, leaving him with nothing but what Anne wanted him to feel.

She shifted into _F_ _ü_ _r Elise_ , and he realized just how long he had been eavesdropping. Moving to enter the music room, he smiled as he spotted her behind the piano. She had opened it, letting the notes pour forth and into the entire house. And she saw him in the same instant, hitting a truly off note. Charles winced at the same time she did. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

Anne laughed lightly, her embarrassment reaching him. "I'm glad you did. I didn't realize how long I've been here."

Charles began slamming the fortress in his mind back into place, muting her self-recriminations. "You play beautifully," he said honestly. Then, he frowned. "Perhaps a bit off key. It's been ten years since that thing was tuned last."

Anne grasped at that straw, grinning at him and putting a hand on his shoulder as she left him alone. "Perhaps it's time you did something about it?"

Charles sat where she left him, wondering why she didn't see the value in her own abilities. Granted, they weren't as spectacular as his telepathy or Hank's Beast, but she had the skill to move hearts and minds without the aid of mutations. That was an even greater feat in his mind.

Following her, he found her stirring a pot of soup on the stove. "I was being honest. You play very well." Charles moved to the cabinet and pulled out a glass for iced tea. "Any fault in that came from the piano, not you."

"Charles, it's been years." Anne leaned her hip against the counter, nodding when he offered her some tea as well.

"Where did you learn?"

"Church, mostly." She took the tall glass from his hand, not minding how their fingers brushed one another's and letting her mind drift into the past. "My mother thought it was the sign of an 'accomplished young woman.' Of course, it was only accomplished if I learned the classics and hymns."

Charles chuckled at that. "You learned well, then. Though I had no idea, even with our time in Oxford."

Anne's smile fell a touch. "My time in Oxford wasn't the highlight of my life. I kind of let it go since then. I started practicing at the rehab center a few months back, but I don't have a piano of my own."

Charles waited until she was looking at him to say the next bit. "Well, feel free to play any time. And I'll look into having it tuned."

She nodded, turning to the stove, and Charles took the hint. Playing the piano was obviously a deeply personal thing, and he was so glad he had put his mind's walls into place. He found that, as much as Anne fed his curiosity, he didn't want to intrude where he wasn't welcome. He'd done that with Hank and too many other people to name. It was time to learn the control he'd preached about ten years ago.

"Charles?" Anne's voice had turned uncertain, and she stared at him with a hesitant expression. "I know this probably isn't the best time, but I've got to ask." She watched as he turned, pasting what he hoped was an open expression onto his face. "Raven?"

The single name brought the sadness back, and he looked out the window to where the afternoon breeze blew low clouds across the sky.

Anne sighed. "It's just. . .She was my friend, and you two always seemed so close."

"You wonder what happened." He finished her statement, not surprised this question had come up. Glancing back up, he waved a hand. "It's alright, I assure you. I don't talk about Raven much, but you have a right to know."

"Not if you're not ready to tell me."

"That's just it, isn't it?" Charles chuckled mirthlessly. "I'll never be ready unless someone like you pries it out of me."

"Someone like me?" The offense in her voice was clear. He didn't need his telepathy to know he'd hurt her.

"I didn't mean it like that. I meant. . . ." He ran a hand over his face and then glanced at the stove where their evening meal simmered. "Can that wait for a while?"

"Yes."

"Come to the library." He looked around. "This isn't a story for the kitchen."

He left her in the kitchen, knowing this was merely a stall tactic. But he and Raven had sat at that table, eating breakfast, so many times. He had a lot of memories of his adopted sister, and he was beginning to build a few with Anne. No matter what Anne might become to him—friend, nurse, maybe more—he didn't want his memories of Raven sullied by her reaction.

Anne found him a few moments later, carrying their tea glasses and setting them on the coffee table he'd dusted just a few days ago. Charles waited while she found coasters and then settled into one end of the long, elegant couch. "Raven left," he said simply. "She and I had a difference of opinion, and she went with a man she loved. His name was Erik Lensherr. Since then, she's become. . . ." He shook his head. "We spoke back in January, and I realized that I've tried to control her. I took her in when she had no one, and I felt I had a right to govern her life. It turns out I didn't."

"So, you let her go."

"Yes, in a manner of speaking." Charles watched the expressions flitting across Anne's face. "I have no idea where she is now." The two were silent for a time, and then he chuckled. "Still glad you came?"

"Yes." Anne met his eyes, and he dared to remove one brick from his fortress so he could pick up on her emotions. "Charles, I don't understand everything you've been through, but I know what it's like to be controlled. Better than most. For her sake—and for yours—I'm glad you let her go." Then, she sighed. "But, if she ever contacts you, I'd love to hear from her."

He wished he could put it into such distinct terms. Raven had been his little sister, a girl to whom he promised so much and then failed. He had promised her a life of ease, to never read her mind, and to always accept her. Instead, he ended up pushing her away with his insistence that she live in a disguise, by reading her mind when she grew up and had desires of her own, and by making their life of ease into a prison. Later, she repaid him by infiltrating his home, nearly seducing Hank, and leaving Cerebro unusable.

Anne left him to his thoughts, then, and Charles stayed in that position for the rest of the afternoon. He could hear Hank come downstairs to compliment her on the piano, smell the soup she was finishing, and see how clouds darkened the sky outside. But he also remembered Raven and how much joy she'd had as a child. Where had he gone wrong? Was it just him, or had she been unwilling to accept life? No, all she'd wanted was acceptance, and he had withheld it when she reached that crucial age of all women when they wanted to know if they were pretty, if they were desirable, and if they were worth anything.

 _I wonder if Anne still feels that._

The thought startled Charles from his brooding, and he blinked as Hank appeared in the library door. "Time to eat?"

"Uh. . .yeah." Hank frowned. "Sorry to sneak up on you."

"You didn't." Charles met his friend's eyes. "I was thinking."

"About Raven."

"You heard."

Hank nodded. "You think she's okay?"

"I have no idea." Charles shrugged. "And I promised I'd let her go. That's one promise I'll keep, even if it means we wonder where she is." _Or what she's doing,_ he added silently.

Hank nodded and followed him to the dining room. Anne had already set the table, and brought servings of soup for each of them. There was fresh bread, butter, and salad as well, and Charles found himself enjoying the quiet camaraderie the three of them shared. Somehow, Hank and Anne knew when he needed silence and when he needed to talk. Tonight, they let him choose the topic of conversation and didn't pry into anything else.

He was grateful to them, for far more than they understood.

~oOo~

Two days later, Anne could avoid it no longer. The refrigerator was nearly empty, and she'd already reheated all the leftovers in the house that escaped Hank's surprising appetite. Plus, Charles had started eating healthier portions, and Anne found she didn't mind cooking for either of the men. So, with a bit of trepidation, she wandered to the garage after leaving a note for Charles that she'd be back in a few hours. Then, she slipped behind the wheel of his Mercedes and tried not to panic.

He trusted her with this car?!

Either way, the groceries weren't going to purchase themselves, so she put the car in gear, backed out of the garage, and headed for town. It took a bit longer than she remembered, but she eventually found the grocery store where Hank had taken her. She thought over the last few weeks as she put groceries in the cart, and she ended up buying things that both Charles and Hank preferred. Then, after tipping the bagger for carrying her groceries out, she headed back to the house.

The drive was truly comforting, and she smiled as she drove through the open gate. Charles must have hired more workers for the grounds, and the house was beginning to look like the one she'd always imagined for him: grand, manicured lawns, and a genteel feeling. The gate had been repainted, and even parking in the garage seemed surreal to her.

Once inside, she set the groceries on the counter and headed for the main portion of the house to let Charles and Hank know she was back. Charles had been withdrawn since their conversation about Raven, and Anne almost regretted asking. But she'd meant what she told him. She was glad that he'd let his sister go.

A strange man came out of the music room.

Anne drew up short, her heels clicking to a stop. Being in Charles's house and seeing the unconscious dignity with which he dressed—when he dressed—had improved her wardrobe choices a bit. As a result, the man smiled and nodded as if tipping his hat. "It's all done, Mrs. Xavier. That piano should sound about perfect compared to its condition when I arrived."

"Piano?" Then, what he'd said caught up with her, and Anne flushed. "It's _Miss_ ," she said softly. "Miss Conrad. I work here."

The man's face fell, his mistake embarrassing both of them. "I'm sorry. I assumed. . . ."

Anne held up a hand. "The piano?" she asked again.

"Uh. . .yeah. Mr. Xavier said _Anne_ liked to play and it hadn't been tuned in years." He narrowed his eyes. "It's all set up if she wouldn't mind trying it."

"I'm Anne," she replied. She felt the flush creeping up her cheeks, but she moved across the room where the piano stood in all its glory. She sat down to play _Amazing Grace_ as she had a few days ago, and true notes flowed from the keys. "You've replaced strings?"

"A few."

"Thank you." She met the workman's eyes. "I appreciate it."

"You're welcome." He left then, and Anne ran her hand over the keys, playing an aimless tune. He had thought she and Charles were married! How many other workers around the place had the same assumption? Besides, if she had Charles's money, she wouldn't be grocery shopping, would she?

 _Groceries!_ Anne quickly closed the piano lid and rushed back to the kitchen to finish with the groceries. Then, she set about making dinner and hoping that she'd be able to look Charles in the eye.

~oOo~

 _Groceries!_

The sharp thought told Charles that Anne was back. As if he'd needed it. He'd heard her playing the piano and smiled when her notes rang true this time.

Leaving her to herself, he ended up down in Hank's lab, listening to his friend talk about some new invention or another. It felt good to have a clean house, though there were still many rooms that needed attention. Anne had finished with the downstairs and moved her attentions to the second floor, reminding Charles of his ideas about furniture. "Hank, would you do me a favor?"

Hank stopped in his work and frowned. "Sure."

"I'd like to have my bedroom furniture—except the wardrobe—moved downstairs." Charles met his friend's eyes. "It's time I decided to stop living in between, so to speak. This is my life now, and I need to accept it."

Hank nodded. "I'll get it done this week."

"Thank you."

Charles left Hank alone then, going back to his study and working until Anne called both of them for supper. He rolled into the dining room and felt a tidal wave of embarrassment slam into the walls of his mind. Blinking, he looked up to find Anne fidgeting with the table settings, her face as red as Raven's hair when she wasn't hiding. "Anne?"

"I'm fine, Charles." But her voice was strangled.

Not wishing to pry but knowing that _something_ was wrong, he let one block of his fortress down, allowing himself to hear her thoughts. And that's when he heard a man's voice in her memories. _It's all done, Mrs. Xavier. That piano should sound about perfect compared to its condition when I arrived._

Charles, who had been taking a sip of water, choked.

Anne blinked at him. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Yes, fine." He turned when Hank walked into the room. "It's about time!" Then, realizing how desperate it sounded, he tried to offer Anne a smile. "This smells wonderful."

~oOo~

Hank McCoy had never claimed to be good at reading people. Especially not when it came to Charles Xavier and his particular ability to disguise his emotions. But _something_ was going on. Charles had choked just as Hank walked through the door, and Anne wouldn't look at him. For that matter, Charles would barely look at her, and Hank frowned.

"Everything okay?" he asked as the pair of them finished their meals in silence.

"What?" Charles looked up, obviously trying—and failing—to project an air of nonchalance. "I'm fine. Just. . .have a lot on my mind."

 _Don't ask_.

Charles's telepathic warning had a hint of embarrassment and awkwardness to it. Hank nodded and glanced to Anne, who had found her empty plate absolutely fascinating.

She blinked up at him. "I'm just tired," she said, though he was unconvinced. Then, she barely allowed her eyes to move in Charles's direction before she jumped to her feet. "Good night."

A moment later, Charles pushed back from the table, tossing his napkin on his plate. "Well, my friend, I think I'll turn in, too." Then, he wheeled out of the _opposite_ door that Anne had used.

Hank sat for a moment before eyeing the table with all the dishes. "Uh. . .guys?" he called, receiving no reply. "Dishes?"

~TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, particularly guests to whom I can't personally respond. They're appreciated! ~lg

~oOo~

Rain pattered on the window when Anne woke the next morning, turning the brightness of her room into a dim, almost depressing, atmosphere. But it was comforting, as well, and she eyed the fireplace. With the cool weather, she might get to light it a bit earlier than planned, though it would probably leave her miserable. Still, the draft blew across her skin as she rose, and she hurried to pull her robe around her.

Downstairs, the house was quiet save for the rain against the windows. It felt odd to know that it was storming outside but peaceful inside. She could hear the ticking of several clocks and the heavy sound of the grandfather clock in the library.

Charles had done a great job of cleaning that room. Even with the upper shelves of books still dusty, he had restored it to what she had always imagined for his home. She knew that he preferred to have Hank clean the shelves, but Hank had kept himself busy with. . .whatever he chose to do. Anne hadn't ventured too close to Hank's room, partially out of respect and partially out of exhaustion. Hank lived on the third floor, and she hadn't finished cleaning the second.

The kitchen was just as cool as the rest of the house, and the rain turned the breathtaking view from the dining table into a misty, almost dreamy, scene. Standing there for a moment, Anne considered her breakfast options and then decided she wanted more than fruit or bagels today. Moving to the refrigerator, she pulled out bacon and eggs, reached for potatoes to shred, and set the tea kettle on to heat. At least Charles would have hot tea while she finished the rest of their breakfast.

Thinking about him brought the thoughts of the previous day to mind. She really should have expected someone to call her "Mrs. Xavier," though from the groundskeepers, not the man hired to tune the piano. It had caught her so off guard that she'd been able to think of little else the previous evening, and she feared she may have inadvertently offended Charles or Hank. It had never been her intent.

 _Get ahold of yourself, Anne_ , she thought firmly. _You're a nurse, someone who deals with embarrassing situations and propositions every day. Why does it bother you so much that it's happening now?_

Because it was Charles. Anne knew herself well enough to know why the thought of being married—or even the idea that people thought she was married—to Charles stirred such panic in her. Because, years ago, she would have happily allowed him to take care of her. Had he even hinted at anything, she would have left Franklin, found a way to avoid his possessiveness, and given herself, body and soul, to Charles Xavier. Now, however, things were different. She still had those old feelings, buried away somewhere in a hidden corner of her heart, but _he_ was different. Right now, he could barely handle a friendship, let alone anything else. And it pained her to realize that her old hopes, no matter how understandable, might only amount to a short time spent with him and then her return to the city with enough memories to keep her for the rest of her life.

Shaking herself out of her depressing thoughts, Anne poured boiling water over the tea and then hurried upstairs to dress. Within fifteen minutes, she stood in front of the stove, frying bacon and trying her best to put the previous day behind her. The "Mrs. Xavier Incident" didn't bear thinking about, not when Charles needed her to be a friend and support right then, not a lovesick girl wishing to revive old feelings.

Charles wheeled into the kitchen a short time later, a smile on his face when he saw her at the stove. "Good morning."

 _At least he's not so awkward this morning_. Anne returned the smile, hoping it wasn't as strained as it felt. "Morning."

Charles raised an eyebrow at her but didn't say anything, choosing to prepare two cups of tea. The bacon was frying quickly, but not so fast it burned, and Anne moved from standing over the stove to shredding the potatoes. Those would take the longest, and she ended up dumping the shreds into the hot butter in a second pan before the bacon was half-cooked.

Then, she realized that Charles had prepared her tea for her and had been silently staring out the window. Stepping to the table, she shook her head. "Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind today."

He eyed her, seeing how she glanced at the stove when the bacon popped loudly. "Care to share?"

Anne sipped her tea—perfect, again—and frowned at the misty landscape beyond the window. "Ever had something happen in the past that you wish you could go back and change?"

For some reason, he chuckled in sincere amusement. "Many times."

"Right." Anne realized that the entire story of his gunshot wound had never been told, and he likely wished to change all of that every day. "Well, it's just that some things happened yesterday to bring all of that up, and it's. . . ."

He frowned at her, turning his chair to face her while she moved back to the stove. "Anne?"

She could hear the same tone in his voice he'd had the night she confessed what Franklin had been doing to her. It was knowing and concerned and soft all at once. "I just keep thinking about years ago." She lifted her eyes, making certain to hold his blue gaze once she met it. "I keep wondering how life might be different, how things might have changed if I'd made a different decision."

He tilted his head to one side. "If you hadn't left England." He said it softly, but with enough force that she understood.

"Yes."

Charles set aside his tea, taking a moment to think through his statement. Anne felt her face heating as she realized she'd just confessed to an old affection for him, though she couldn't be certain he caught the reference. Finally, he sighed. "Anne, as much as we wish we could change things, some things need to stay the same. And I can't say that I don't have regrets, particularly when it comes to what put me in this chair. But I am glad things turned out as they did all those years ago." He looked back at her, his expression gentle and open. "If you had not left England, you could have been caught up in something far worse than what happened. Trust me, I know because I was. And you wouldn't be here to give me hope that I can rebuild my life and learn to leave the hurts and addictions of the past there."

For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the bubbling bacon and Anne's hurried movements to get it off the heat before it burned. She hesitated over the bowl where she would scramble the eggs, thinking through what he'd said. "You think that my coming back to the States _needed_ to happen?" So much had followed that decision, and she hated the idea that she needed to go through any of it.

He shrugged. "Would you be the woman you are today if not for those ten years?"

She glanced up at him as she began to crack eggs into the bowl. "I could ask you the same thing, Charles."

He sat for a long moment, sipping at his tea while she finished cooking breakfast. Finally, when she carried two plates over to the table, he reached for her hand, capturing it between two of his fingers and forcing her to look at him. "All those years ago, I was young, foolish, and thought I had my life planned out. I would graduate from Oxford, take a teaching job, and provide for Raven until she finally met the man of her dreams. And, now that I think about it, that would have been a perfectly boring life." He let go of her hand, chuckling mirthlessly. "Instead, I ended up consulting with the government during the Missile Crisis and taking a bullet to the back."

Anne blinked at the mixture of regret and pain in his words. "That's when Raven left?"

"Yes." He shook his head. "For the last several years, I've lived that perfectly boring life, and it's led to this."

Anne looked around. "This isn't all that bad, Charles. No matter how it might look to you."

He smiled at that, picking up his fork. "Perhaps not now." He glanced over his shoulder. "But the last few years. . . ." He shook his head again, this time as if to clear his thoughts. "So, happy you came?"

She grinned. "Yes. And sorry for the heavy conversation first thing in the morning."

Charles glanced out the window at the rain. "It's a good morning for heavy conversation."

Anne couldn't agree more. Still, she let the subject drop, her thoughts a little less tense but still in turmoil. And her motivation to continue working on cleaning was dropping a little with every moment. It was a rainy day, the perfect day to curl up with a book or knit or a combination of both. At that moment, she pictured herself in the window seat in the music room, wrapped in a blanket to ward off the damp draft, and a pile of yarn in her lap.

As if sensing her thoughts, Charles helped himself to another cup of tea and eyed her. "What are your plans for today?" He held up a hand. "And don't say you need to clean another room."

"Well, I do," Anne muttered.

"Anne, take the day to yourself." He glanced outside. "It's a good day for it."

She frowned at him. "How do you do that?"

"What?"

"Know what I'm thinking?"

He laughed again, this time as if she'd embarrassed him. "You're not that hard to read, Anne. Not to someone who's known you in the past."

Breakfast ended a short time later, and Anne wandered back up to her room. She needed to make the bed and spent a few moments tidying up the place. She washed her laundry every other day, and Charles's request that she take the day left her with hours stretched out in front of her.

What did she really want to do? Choosing to ignore the book she'd started reading the night before and the bag full of a knitting project that she'd neglected for too long, she slipped on a pair of sturdy boots and a wool coat. Then, with an umbrella tucked under her arm, she left the house.

Outside, in the drizzle that insisted on turning everything gray, Anne felt like she could breathe. Dropping the umbrella, she let the rain wet her hair and begin to calm the thoughts swirling in her head. The cool air brought a smile to her face, and she began a slow walk around the mansion. The pathways had been cleaned up, though the gravel would make it difficult for Charles to get his wheelchair out here. Hence the stone walk next to the gravel drive.

For a long time, she wandered aimlessly, enjoying the terraced gardens that had been cleared and the quiet of the day. Maybe Charles was right. This was what she needed to clear her head. And, with a little time, she hoped she'd be able to fully accept her life as it was rather than wishing she could change it.

~oOo~

Charles watched from a window in the library as Anne wandered in the rain, slipping slightly on the gravel terraces but lifting her head and smiling at the sky. Even from this distance, he could feel the contentment beginning to flow off of her and let out a deep breath. Her thoughts that morning had overwhelmed him, and he'd struggled to find the will to even join her for breakfast. How had he not known that she cared for him all those years ago? How had he been so blind that he didn't see that she was all but begging him to rescue her from Franklin and his abuses? How had he missed that?

Running a hand over his eyes, Charles looked at the book in his lap and sighed. Anne still wanted him to rescue her, though her desires had changed as she'd aged. She no longer wanted a wealthy husband to take her away from all of her troubles. Now, she simply craved attention, to know that she was worth something. It came through in everything she did, from the way she seemed embarrassed at playing the piano to her thoughts about finding an "appropriate location" to knit.

Not for the first time, Charles wanted to find Franklin and Anne's parents and show them just what their disapproval of her lifestyle had done to her. They had taken a beautiful young woman with hopes for the future and left her alone, crying out for someone to take notice and love her.

But he couldn't be that man. Could he? His life was so messed up at the moment, and the desire to simply escape into the silence of Hank's serum asserted itself with more and more force each day. Every time he couldn't reach a high bookshelf, every room he straightened and realized he'd be unable to properly mop, every morning when he saw Anne standing at the stove while he sat at the table like an invalid. . . .It had all piled up into one depressing future. He was a man who could love a woman and treat her well, but he could do nothing about her most basic needs. How could he when he was confined to a wheelchair?

Shaking his head and turning from the window, Charles reached for his book and opened it. Ever since breakfast, he'd done his best to build his mind's castle, pushing out Anne's thoughts and all but her most prominent emotions. Hank had been up all night, which accounted for his absence at breakfast, and had finally begun to stir just a few moments ago. The peacefulness of the morning, combined with the cozy feel of the rain, finally began its work, and Charles let himself become absorbed in a book he hadn't read since university.

The clouds darkened as the day progressed, drawing Charles from his thoughts. He glanced outside, seeing the rain coming down in sheets and frowned. A quick telepathic check of the house told him that Hank was working with extreme focus on a secret project, but Anne had not yet returned. Letting his telepathy widen to the grounds, he found her about ten minutes from the house, slogging back in pouring rain and shivering in spite of her wool coat. She had obviously wandered a bit further than intended while the weather lightened and been caught in the downpour.

Setting aside the book, Charles wheeled over to the fireplace. The draft in the library had always been the worst, but Anne needed to warm up. And soon, or she'd end up ill. So, dismissing the idea of calling for some help, Charles worked for ten minutes to get firewood, clear the grate, light a fire, and dust himself off after it was all said and done. By then, Anne had slipped through the kitchen, leaving her drenched coat and shoes beside the door, and rushed upstairs. He moved to his bedroom, changing his soot-stained clothing as quickly as he could and then returning to the library.

The fire made a huge difference. Anne had been in here before, and he'd settled her in front of the fireplace the evening he'd spoken about Raven. But she hadn't ventured in again, though Charles intended to have her keep him company for the afternoon. With the fire roaring, he looked around and then nodded.

He could do this. While not as romantic as some might think, he could let Anne know she was welcome and valued. He'd have to be careful, to keep from letting himself care too deeply. But it was possible for a _friend_ to show the same sort of respect she craved. Besides, she would probably balk if he tried anything beyond friendship, anyway.

He sat and forced himself to read until he heard her come down the stairs. She moved to the music room, and Charles followed, peeking around the corner as she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Her hair was still wet, hanging in loose waves around her face. The darkness of it highlighted her pale features and a slight sprinkling of freckles he hadn't noticed before. Or had he and just ignored it? She wore a thick pair of socks on her feet and huddled under the blanket, shivering slightly.

Charles wheeled into the room. "Anne?"

She turned, a flush coming to her pale cheeks as she jumped. "Sorry. I was just. . ." She shivered slightly. "I love walking in the rain, but it's colder out there than usual for this time of year."

Charles smiled at that. "I have a fire in the library. You're welcome to join me."

She glanced at the bag next to her. "Oh, I don't. . . .That is, I. . . ."

"You're not intruding." He was glad her protest wasn't so out of place that he'd need to pluck it from her mind. "I'm reading, and you need warmth. Come join me."

Anne stared at him for another few minutes before she uncurled from the window seat and reached for the bag. Then, she let him lead the way back to the library and the two couches that sat in front of the fire. Charles reached for the blanket kept there for late nights reading and studying, waiting while she picked a spot and then laying it at her feet. Then, as he'd promised, he retreated to the other couch, transferring from his wheelchair to sit slightly facing her.

She watched him do so, her gaze both clinical and curious. "What are you reading?"

He chuckled at that. "Well, I was reading a book I enjoyed during my Oxford days, but I ended up reading my thesis instead."

She raised an eyebrow. "Feeling nostalgic?"

"A bit." He glanced around. "Being in this room brings back a lot of memories. Good memories, but it left me with too much time on my hands today." He met her eyes. "What about you?"

Her gaze flickered to the bag nearby. "I brought a project downstairs to work on, but. . . ."

Charles narrowed his eyes. _But it's knitting and doesn't belong here._ Her thoughts were clear, and her obvious embarrassment at something so "homey" showed in her uncertainty. He motioned to it. "Why not work on it?"

"Because."

"Not an answer."

"It's all you're getting right now."

"You _are_ stubborn."

"And you're not?"

"Work on your project, Anne." Charles put an end to the argument with that soft instruction, wishing she'd realize that he accepted her desires and hobbies. As she stared mutinously at him, he lowered his voice even more. "It's something that calms you, yes?"

She nodded.

"Today is a day for comfort and calm." He looked at the window, where the rain still fell in sheets. "Out there is the storm. Enjoy a few quiet moments with your project and a friend. Please."

He watched the fight going out of her and then breathed a soft sigh of relief when she reached for her bag. Deliberately turning his attention to his thesis, which he'd opened after transferring to the couch, he watched surreptitiously as she pulled a pile of yarn, knitting needles, and some sort of fabric from the large tote. Then, she shook it out, revealing its vaguely triangular shape, and went to work, the wool flowing through her fingers as she did so.

Charles read for a few more moments, not minding the irritated thoughts coming from the other couch. If anything, he struggled to keep from laughing at a few of them. Anne was creative in her way of thinking, even if she was a bit off base with her assumptions.

But her thinking changed the longer she worked. Her focus narrowed from her "nosy boss" to the project in her hands, a shawl meant for use during the winter. As she found a rhythm with the movement of her hands, she also fell into a rhythmic way of thinking. Charles looked up suddenly, surprised by that, and stared. The irritation had faded from her face, replaced with a sort of contentment that he had not personally felt in a very long time. It spilled into his mind, and he allowed himself to absorb it, shifting slightly to get more comfortable in his position. He went so far as to change the position of his legs in spite of the fact he could no longer feel them. It took a bit of pressure from his spine, and he ignored Anne's glance of worry, not surprised when her hands never stopped moving.

The afternoon melted away, and Charles barely noticed the passing of the hours. He read his thesis slowly, constantly distracted by the way Anne's mind worked. He had once been around someone who meditated on a regular basis, and this felt very similar. Except it was more than simply focusing on one thing and chanting. Anne seemed to let her thoughts go, her focus on her project while her mind ranged the gamut of topics from what needed to happen the next day to her memories of Oxford. The thoughts had a well-worn feel to them, something she probably considered on a regular basis.

Hank found them there around four in the afternoon, his expression one of worry. Charles felt him coming and had waited patiently, sending a telepathic warning to be quiet. Hank peeked around the corner, his eyes widening when he saw the pair of them propped up on their respective couches. Anne had stopped knitting for a time, her gaze on the fire and her thoughts wrapped up in some story she'd been reading. Her hair had fully dried, lightening from the dark brown it had been into soft waves with blonde tones where the light hit it. And she had more color in her face, though she still had a blanket wrapped around her feet.

Charles watched as Hank mimed eating and then shook his head and shrugged.

The movement brought Anne out of her thoughts. She blinked as if waking up and then looked around, spotting the grandfather clock. "I'm so sorry! I meant to start cooking an hour ago!"

"No, don't be." Charles held up a hand as Hank walked fully into the library. "In fact, I think it's been a lovely afternoon."

Anne looked from Hank to him, her face turning a delightful shade of pink. "Maybe, but. . . ."

"No buts, Anne." Charles couldn't stop the grin that formed when she glared at him. For some reason, she liked to hear his voice when he spoke that way, but it irritated her when he gave her an order.

Hank ignored the soft way Charles spoke. "Uh. . .what if I just order in? It's been a while. And it'll take a bit to get here, but. . . ."

"Perfect idea!" Charles leaned forward, catching Anne's eye from where she was packing her knitting away into her bag. "Is there anything you want specifically?"

Anne glared at him. "I _can_ cook, Charles."

"I know you can." He sighed. "And I appreciate that you do. However, you don't have to cook every single day, do you?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but Hank interrupted. "I think what he's trying to say is that you need a day off, as well as we do."

"Yes, thank you, Hank," Charles said, grasping at that straw. He'd never met a woman more determined to make her own way than Anne, and the thought that she might inconvenience him truly unsettled her. "You've been living in this house, working and making it everything it should be, for nearly a month. In that time, today is the only day you've taken to yourself. I, for one, have enjoyed your company, and I think I speak for Hank when I say that you deserve an evening to enjoy a meal you didn't create. And, since neither Hank nor I cook, you'll have to do with take-out."

Anne spluttered for a few moments, looking from Charles to Hank and back. But both men were united in their determination to "cook" her dinner for her. She sighed, letting go of the argument with as much grace as she could after the scene she'd made. "Fine." She held up a finger. "But I get to pick what we eat."

Charles glanced at Hank, seeing the way the other man shrugged, and then said, "Okay."

"Good." Anne grinned. "Because I want pizza."

Charles laughed at the way she announced her desires, thankful she hadn't picked something like calamari. He liked seafood, but squid was a line he could not cross. "I think we can handle pizza. Hank?"

"I'll take care of it." Hank moved to the desk, listening as the two of them told him exactly what they wanted on their pizza. And Charles watched as Anne relaxed back into the couch.

The trio spent the evening in front of the fire, eating pizza and talking about whatever came to mind. Finally, after Hank had escaped to his lab for the night, Anne looked across the room to Charles. "Thank you."

He picked up on her unspoken reasons. _Thank you for accepting me, for being willing to fight with me._ He smiled. "You're welcome. Though, next time you want to knit, I don't want such a fight on my hands."

"You're awful bossy, you know."

Charles grinned at that but sobered quickly. "I'm serious, Anne. Every day, take some time to yourself. Whether it's knitting or reading or taking a walk in the rain. I don't care."

She smiled at him then, her mind bringing up images of his home or property, little places where she'd like to retreat for a while. And he knew he'd reached her for this one thing. "I'll try," she promised.

Charles let her go, watching as she slipped out of the library.

Hank took her place a moment later. "Everything okay?"

"What?" Charles shifted again in his seat. "Oh, yes."

Hank narrowed his eyes. "She's settling in finally."

"Yes, but she's having a hard time believing we will accept her for who she is." Charles shook his head. "Life hasn't been easy for Anne, and she has something in her past that she refuses to even think about. But being here has brought up a lot of remembered tension for her, and she needs time." _If she only knew how easily we accept people._

Hank wasn't certain to how to answer that. After all, he and Charles possessed abilities that would make her skills seem mundane, no matter how amazing Charles thought them. "You okay?" Hank asked after a moment. "I mean, since last night and all."

The sudden change in topic didn't startle Charles as much as it once had. "I'm fine." He went back to staring at the door where Anne had disappeared. "I apologize for leaving the clean-up to you, though."

Hank shrugged. "I'm used to it most of the time."

Charles eyed his friend. "I misrepresented something to someone, and that person made assumptions about Anne and our relationship."

Hank's eyebrows rose, a tinge of amusement coming into his thoughts. "He thought you two are dating?"

Charles laughed at that. "No! Well, yes. In a way." He had finally dealt with the embarrassment, and sitting with Anne had been a good thing for him. But he still hated having to verbalize it as if it would make it absolutely preposterous. "He assumed that Anne and I are married."

Hank's jaw dropped. "She told you this?"

"No." Charles sobered. "I picked it up from her mind." He turned to his friend. "Hank, I need your help. I don't have the control I once did, and I know that. I'm getting better, but having Anne in the house makes it too easy to read her mind if I want to know something. She's good at keeping her thoughts under control most of the time, but she's been overwhelmed lately. It's led to some interesting revelations, ones that I'm not certain I'll ever speak about."

"What do you want me to do?" Hank frowned. "The mind is your area of expertise, Charles. Not mine."

"I know that." Charles picked up the two books he'd been reading, planning to return them to the shelf after this conversation. "Just keep me in check, please. Anne is a friend to me, a very special friend that I would like to _not_ lose because I did something foolish."

Hank nodded. "I'll do what I can," he said. "But I can't do anything to keep you out of either of our heads if you really want in them."

"I know." Charles began the process of transferring back to his wheelchair. "And that's what worries me."

~TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed.

A quick note about character age: Several of you have commented on the age of the characters, particularly in relation to Raven. While I know that the movies (First Class and Days of Future Past) like to portray her in her late twenties and early thirties, I do not feel that is the case. The movie timelines and ages for the characters do not jive, and I do not believe that Charles was thirty when First Class happened. As most of my readers from other fandoms know, I usually set my characters' ages around the same age as the actor playing them. Therefore, I have taken creative license with character ages for the sake of the story. And, as I'm writing for the movies and not the comic books, I haven't felt much need to be accurate for the comics.

I hope everyone enjoys the chapter! ~lg

~oOo~

The rain had let up a bit the next morning, but Anne woke feeling like she wanted to curl up somewhere and sleep. Still, it was time to start breakfast, and keeping Charles on a steady schedule was paramount. If she had learned anything in the last few weeks, she had realized that time slipped away before she noticed. The house had a magical quality, a way of transporting a person to a whole new world emotionally. For Anne, it gave her a respite from the city while keeping her from becoming too dependent on it. After all, it was _Charles's_ house, not hers. And, as much as she liked living there and exploring the grounds, she knew she would leave one day.

Pushing out of bed, Anne grabbed her robe and then headed for the kitchen. The same peacefulness that had hovered the previous morning and settled during the afternoon followed her. She pulled out the tea kettle, tea pot, and all the fixings, preparing them quickly while her mind returned to yesterday.

Yesterday, she had spent hours in the same room as Charles, not speaking but still close. It had reminded her of their time in Oxford, of those nights that he gave her a safe place to read or study. She had sensed him watching her at times, but she had refused to let it bother her too terribly. Besides, he _insisted_ that she work on her project, and she felt almost smug in the realization that he'd never seen anyone knit before.

Just what sort of life had Charles Xavier led? He'd spoken about working with the government and being shot, but he had not told her everything. The man was cryptic at his best times while still portraying an air of open friendliness, and that cagey attitude worried Anne. She cared a great deal for Charles, but she could not truly help him if he did not allow himself to be honest. Some moments, she wondered if he was trying to protect her from something. At others, she could almost guarantee that he simply wanted to protect himself. The longer she lived in his home, the more certain she was of this impression.

The kettle whistled, and she poured the hot water over the tea. Then, she went upstairs, her thoughts in a jumble as she dressed. Charles's propensity to care for his friends, from providing finances and a home to keeping secrets, came from a deep place within him. She had seen it during their years in Oxford. But, back then, he hadn't been dealing with depression or addiction. As the days passed, Anne saw more than Charles likely realized. She knew that, very soon, he would fall apart. Her presence here had given him a reason to get back to a daily life, but that daily life would eventually show him just how different it was from what he'd wanted. How had he termed it? A perfectly boring life? And he knew, better than anyone, how that life had destroyed him.

She returned to the kitchen as she continued to think. How should she prepare for it? Anne knew from personal experience that these breakdowns could take many forms. She had seen people turn violent, suicidal, emotional, or just plain rude. She'd had things thrown at her, curses shouted at her, and some had even physically attacked her. How would Charles react when life came crashing down? She hadn't been here when he lost his legs, but she doubted even that would compare to this time. When everything collapsed around him, she would see the real Charles Xavier, the one without masks or refined accents or wealth.

"Good morning." That very man chose that moment to enter the kitchen, though his expression looked a bit strained.

Anne blinked, wondering if he could see her thoughts written on her face and then realized that she hadn't even begun their breakfast. "Sorry. I'm running a little late today."

Charles waved her apology away. "It's a day like yesterday." He reached for the tea set, fixing their tea like any other morning. "Made for sleeping in, slow starts, and enjoying another fire."

She couldn't stop the smile that formed. "Maybe," she said. "But I took yesterday off. So I need to get back to work."

He stared at her, his hands frozen over the sugar bowl. "Don't you ever grow tired of cleaning?"

"Yes." Anne met his eyes. "But I never grow tired of what I find when I do clean."

"And what is that?"

"Peace of mind, for both myself and those around me." She reached for a bit of sausage and settled on a less-than-healthy breakfast. "A sense of accomplishment. A feeling that I can make a difference."

"You do make a difference, Anne," Charles said softly, using the same tone he had the day before when she argued with him. It never failed to send a slight shiver down her spine. "More than you know."

She settled for smiling at his words and going to work on browning the sausage, baking biscuits, and scrambling eggs. By the time Hank appeared, all of his hair standing on end, she had finished the gravy.

Charles turned and laughed at the sight. "Hank, you look like you fought with a beast." He smirked at Hank's sudden glare. "And lost."

Hank reached for the third tea cup that Anne always set out, whether he joined them or not. He poured the tea black and then added a tiny amount of sugar, his movements slightly jerky and uncoordinated.

Anne set a plate in front of him. "Are you okay?" she asked softly. Charles's description was accurate, and she couldn't help but worry about him.

"I'm fine," Hank told her, completely ignoring Charles. "Just. . . ." He shrugged. "I finally got some sleep last night."

Breakfast passed quietly. Anne handed the paper to Charles, who read while he munched, helping himself to a second cup of tea and leaving Anne to her thoughts. Hank ate mechanically, almost as if he wanted to fall asleep in his plate, and she couldn't help but smile. She'd had mornings like that and almost told him to go back to bed.

Charles lingered at the table, even after she finished straightening the kitchen, and Anne left him to begin on the large upstairs hall. She had been focused on the smaller rooms, all of them set up like dormitories, but the hallway had been neglected for far too long. She glanced upward, knowing that Charles would probably come out of his wheelchair if she so much as thought about cleaning the chandeliers, so she left them alone. But she began at the western end of the hall, with its medallion-shaped window, and worked her way across the large house.

The hallway could double as its own room. Wide enough for full-sized couches and chairs to be arranged into seating areas, it welcomed her just as the rest of this house did. And, for the majority of the day, Anne contented herself with knowing that she'd soon be finished with her work. After finishing the cleaning, she wasn't certain what she would do with herself. But she determined she'd figure it out.

The sun came out just as she began setting the table for supper. It streamed through the windows of the dining room, turning everything a golden color and warming the area. Anne had cooked a pot of chili, something that could be made in large quantities and put in the freezer for easy preparation. But, suddenly, she just wanted to get out of the house and walk.

Charles and Hank arrived at the set time, both of them laughing at something. She'd seen Charles head up to Hank's rooms on the third floor, and it did her a world of good to know that the two men were at least speaking to one another again. Charles looked more relaxed than he had that morning, and Hank's hair had been tamed into its normal hairstyle.

Once the men insisted on cleaning up the dishes, Anne gracefully bowed out and made her way upstairs. She found a towel, a blanket, and a book, intending to enjoy every last ounce of sunshine she could before it faded. Maybe, after she took a few breaths of rain-soaked air, she'd be able to figure out how to help Charles.

If he still wanted her help when the reality of his life collapsed on top of him.

~oOo~

Charles made it to the library in time to see Anne slip around a corner and out of sight. He knew based on her thoughts that she intended to find a nook in the garden designed for reading on hot days. At least she carried a blanket with her, as well as a towel. He had worried for her health the previous evening, but she seemed to have suffered no ill effects from her walk in the rain.

Her thoughts, however, troubled him. She clearly expected him to fall apart at any moment, and Charles knew she wasn't far from wrong. As his life settled into a routine, he realized that he had nothing left for which to live. In the past, he'd had his school and work with young mutants who needed guidance. Now, he had a big house with only three people living in it. As the days passed, the uselessness of his life crept over him, changing him from the driven man he'd been to the aimless bum he was now.

How did he find a way to work past that? _We need you to hope again, Charles._ The words of his elderly self, fifty years into the future and facing certain death at the hands of a ruthless enemy, had given him the strength he needed at that moment. And he had hoped. He had hoped for Raven, for Erik, for every person affected by the threat of the Sentinel program. But the Sentinels had been scrapped, Erik had escaped, and he had left Raven to her own life. What did he have left besides a big, empty house, his growing feelings for Anne, and a friend who spent more time in a laboratory than in society?

Turning from the window, Charles resolutely moved to his study. It had lingered in a half-cleaned state for far too long, and it now gave him something to do. He furiously cleared the shelves of all clutter, threw away anything that even looked like trash, and wiped at the dust. The sun set, and Anne returned to the house, but he still worked. It felt good to have this room cleaned, to remove the dark shades from lamps and try to get it looking like the rest of the house.

When his burst of energy faded, he had a very clean credenza and desk. If he sat back at the door and ignored the couch where he'd drunk himself into a stupor more times than he could count, he could almost see a bit of hope. Maybe nothing as big as he'd originally imagined, but hope that it could be finished. And hope that he could, one day, forget what sort of room this had been.

However, at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to pour a strong drink and stare into a fireplace while he mulled over his life and what he truly wanted with it.

Tired of his thoughts, he telepathically traced both Anne and Hank to their respective places. Hank was once again in the lab, puzzling over some piece of metal. Anne, however, had returned to her rooms and was preparing for the night. Resigning himself to an evening of solitude, Charles took himself to bed, staring out the window and trying to forget the thoughts that made his head hurt. After a while, he flipped on his lamp and forced himself to read the book he'd left there.

The next day, Anne once again slipped out of the house after spending her time in one of the dormitories upstairs and then cooking dinner. Hank begged off from dinner, citing a project he was _finally_ making progress on, and Charles did his best to be sociable. But the last thing he wanted was to talk to Anne when he didn't quite know what topic to pick.

Once he'd assured her that he could clean the kitchen by himself, she left him alone. Once outside in the setting sun with the cool breeze in her hair, she paused and took a deep breath. It seemed as if she had let the stress of the day slide from her shoulders before she set off, her pace meant to bring exercise and her intention to return to the house before the sun went down.

Charles finished in the kitchen and wheeled himself into his study. He supposed he could ask Hank what he was working on, but something told him to wait. He'd been trying to avoid accidentally invading someone's mind, and his practice seemed to be paying off with both Anne and Hank. He'd just tidied up the couch in his study and decided to get rid of it that he realized Anne was back inside. In fact, he hadn't fully noticed until he felt a sense of the same meditative thought process that her knitting brought on.

Abandoning the study—again—Charles quietly moved to the library, returning the book that had failed to hold his interest the previous evening and picking another from the shelves. Anne was curled into the corner of the couch, knitting away after lighting a small fire. Deciding he could do with company as well as the meditative peace of her thoughts, he moved to "his" couch, transferring from his wheelchair.

Anne glanced up, a concerned look on her face. "You okay?"

"Yes." Charles smiled, though his gaze was drawn to her hands and how she seemed to knit almost automatically. Realizing he was staring, he opened his book and forced himself to read. However, he found his attention constantly drawn back to Anne and her hands, fascinated by the rhythmic motion and the effect it had on her mind.

 _~oOo~_

Charles was watching her. Anne could feel it every time he turned a page. It was as if her knitting completely drew him away from his book. Thankfully, the pattern was pretty basic, and she simply had to pay attention to her increases and when to knit the center stitch of the shawl.

Finally, she could stand it no longer. She glanced up to see him watching her hands, his book held open but forgotten as his brow drew down in a contemplative scowl. Waiting for him to notice her, she fought to keep a smirk from her face. "Would you like to learn to knit?"

Charles laughed at that, his expression ranging from fascination to embarrassment. "Oh, no. I think I'll leave the knitting to you, love."

Anne blinked at the endearment. It was one that Charles had used numerous times during their time in England, but he had yet to pull it out this time around. Now, she tried to ignore the warmth that spread from her stomach as she snickered. "Just thought I'd ask. Especially since you seem so. . . ."

"Fascinated?" Charles closed his book, tilting his head to one side. "It is fascinating. I've watched a lot of people in my time, Anne, and I can't say I've seen one quite as peaceful as you are when you knit."

She paused long enough to re-position the yarn in her hand. "Knitting is therapeutic," she said simply.

"I can see that."

"No, I mean, it really _is_ therapeutic." She shrugged, going back to what she'd been doing before she started the conversation. "When I was at the rehab center, I'd always have my patients try to knit."

"Did it work?"

"For some." She stopped knitting and let her mind travel back a few months. "Most of them were there because it made them look good, so I really can't speak to how well it worked. But the ones in rehab because they wanted help, _those_ are the ones that knitting helped."

Charles leaned forward slightly. "Why is that?"

"Because it's almost meditative." Anne met his eyes. "I can knit and be completely focused on my project, but my mind could be miles away. Say, working through whether or not I should testify in a hearing against my former employer. But, instead of letting it get me worked into a frenzy and having a panic attack, I can think on the options I have. For example, I'm already established in another job, a _better_ paying job—thank you for that, by the way—and I have already moved on in my life. My previous employer is just that. However, on the other side of the coin, I saw and reported things that were clear violations of ethics. I have a responsibility to the people who go to that rehab center to make certain they receive the best care they can. How can I do that without testifying? But what if the defense brings up my past? It's not pretty, and it's not something I want known. How will I handle that?"

"You think about all of this while you're knitting?"

"Tonight, yes." She shrugged. "Most of the time, I'm thinking about what to make for dinner the following day or which room to clean next."

Charles chuckled at that. "So, basically, you free your mind to work through your problems without stress?"

"Yes." She took a moment to consider how best to put it. "I call it 'subconscious thinking.' But it doesn't always work. Sometimes, it just puts me to sleep."

"And what is tonight?"

"Tonight it's the debate between what I should do about my last job." She couldn't help the tension that crept into her voice. "I've been invited to participate in a hearing concerning what I witnessed, but I can choose to submit my deposition in writing. The attorneys think it would look better if I appear in person, though."

Charles sat back in his seat, his book set aside and one arm stretched across the back of the couch. "What do you want, Anne?"

She sighed. "I don't know." Looking him in the eye, she let him see the helplessness she felt. "I just want to move on. I'm here now, working in a much better environment and away from everything that kept me knitting just so I didn't kill people out of sheer frustration. I'm not being yelled at, being cursed at, or being attacked by spoiled, drug-crazed celebrities. I go to bed each night with the memory of two friends laughing, not with the echoes of some patient's dry heaves or addled rambling. And that's just how it is at times. The counseling sessions are worse because that's where the emotional pain starts coming out." She looked down at her hands, hardly able to stand his patient, direct blue gaze. "I don't want to go back there again."

She felt him studying her but ignored it while she fiddled with the yarn in her lap. The tears that pricked her eyes startled her, and her tirade about her old job and everything she'd hated about it had spilled out almost without any thought. She wished she hadn't, especially to Charles, who had once listened in much the same way when she finally told him how Franklin treated her.

Finally, he spoke, drawing her gaze back to how he sat comfortably on the couch, arm outstretched and legs crossed in spite of their paralysis. "You'll make the right decision, Anne. You always do."

"That's just it, Charles." She leaned forward, her knitting forgotten for a time. "I may not have a choice. I _chose_ to work in that field because of my past, and I did have a calling for it. But. . . ."

"You're tired." He nodded. "Burnt out, so to speak." When she nodded, he gave her a slight smile. "Anne, everyone has a time when they get tired. Even me. What matters is whether or not you retreat, rest, and return to your calling when the time is right." He frowned. "And, now that I say that, I realize how hypocritical it is. Telling you to do something that I'm not willing to do."

She stared at him. Just admitting that he wasn't willing to move on had been a huge step, even if it had been done in an offhanded way. However, it was more like the Charles Xavier she remembered from Oxford, though the years had given him wisdom that youth could never imitate.

She sighed. "If I have to go back. . . ."

"You'll take the car and then come back here when it's over." Charles made it sound so simple. "You're my friend, Anne, and you're becoming part of this house. Nearly every room has your touch in it, and I, for one, am glad about that. Hank is, too, even if he's spent most of his time in his lab recently."

"What _is_ he working on, by the way?"

"I have no idea." Charles's confused tone broke the tension, and Anne chuckled. "I will say that I'm happy to let him work. He's spent too much time looking after the house."

 _And after me._ Charles didn't have to say it, but Anne knew he meant it. "How are you doing?" she asked a moment later. "I mean, you sat there and let me spill everything going on in my mind."

He eyed her, obviously debating what to tell her. Then, he sighed. "I'm. . .here. I'm in this house all day, every day, and it gets frustrating that I can't even wander around my own garden. After a while, the walls of something this big close in, and I just. . . ." He shook his head, his hair moving as he obviously struggled with his thoughts. That he was talking at all indicated a genuine desire to heal. But his open expression from a few moments ago had darkened, and it seemed as if his eyes had gone a little flat and emotionless.

Anne waited, her mind already working through her thoughts from the previous day and what he chose to reveal. The depression was hovering again, and it could bring back old ways of thinking. And acting. When he didn't continue, she asked, "Ever considered just getting out for the day? Going to lunch or tagging along when I buy groceries?"

He stared at her. "And slow you down?"

"You. . . ." Anne growled at him and glared. "How _dare_ you! You're the reason I'm here in the first place, the reason I do what I do. And you think you would slow me down?" She took a deep breath. "Sorry. But. . . ."

He grinned at her. "You're rather cute when you're mad."

"So you made me mad so I'd be cute?" She closed her eyes. "Charles, slowing down while I shop for groceries wouldn't be a bad thing. I have a habit of racing through the store and forgetting stuff anyway. And, for the record, I'd love to go to lunch with you any time you need to get out of the house. And I'm sure Hank would happily take you along whenever he heads to town for anything he needs. Just like Hank and I, you need human interaction, time when you're outside, away from home, and just involved with something else. It doesn't have to be an extended length of time, but it can be helpful."

He sobered, but his eyes still sparkled when he looked at her. "I'll think about it."

Anne accepted that and went back to knitting. However, after their conversation and the irritation that had flared, the activity had the opposite effect on her than she wanted, and she caught herself nodding off once or twice. After the second time, she heard Charles's warm voice. "Go on to bed, love. I'll be here in the morning."

Anne wanted to glare at him for assuming that she stayed awake just because she wanted to spend time with him. She did, but she worried. His words about slowing her down showed a glimpse of how he felt about his own disabilities and why he disappeared so often. And she hated to leave the evening on such a low note. Plus, he'd used that endearment again, the one that never failed to affect her.

Frowning at him, she began packing her project into her bag. "Just promise me one thing, Charles." She waited until he nodded. "If you need to talk, come find me or Hank. Don't let things get so out of hand in that brain of yours that you do something stupid."

He lifted his chin, immediately defensive, but it melted away a moment later. "I'll do my best."

"That's all I ask." She rose then, trying and failing to smile gracefully. "Goodnight, Charles."

He returned the smile. "Dream well."

She left the library, thankful he hadn't added that infuriating "love" to the end that. She probably would have dreamt well if he had, but she hated that he could charm his way out of anything. It made keeping an eye on his mental health a lot more difficult, and she knew she had no defense against it.

~oOo~

Charles watched Anne go, regretful of how he'd irritated her. Sitting back on the couch, he stared at the ceiling and thought over her words. Anne had been asked to testify against her former employer, and she worried about him. To the point of making him promise to find someone to talk to should he need it.

 _I'll do my best._

 _Your best is enough._

The conversation came back to him now, reminding him of a promise he'd made to Logan. However, he had no way of finding these X-Men. The name that Moira had given his team had fallen into disuse over the years, and Charles struggled to see it reinstated. After all, he was so focused on finding a reason to continue that he ignored the obvious one.

But could he do it? Could he reach out, feel other people's pain, and embrace it when he could barely stand his own?

Leaving the library after returning his book to the shelf, Charles prepared for bed and retired as well. He was exhausted from the previous night's thoughts, and he found himself staring out the window as the moon moved overhead.

If there was one thing he could say for alcohol, it was that he could sleep. But that wasn't the answer, no matter how much he wished it could be that simple.

He stared at the night sky until sleep finally overcame him, and he was still asleep when he sensed Hank in the room. Cracking open one eye, he frowned. "Hank?"

"You missed breakfast." Hank shrugged. "Anne is worried."

Charles blinked, feeling the grit in his eyes. "I'm fine," he said softly. "Just. . .trouble sleeping."

"Voices?"

"Yes. My own." Charles pushed himself up on his elbows. "Tell Anne I'm sorry I missed breakfast."

Hank nodded and slipped out the door, leaving Charles to flop back onto the bed. He really should get up, finish cleaning in his study, and find something on which to focus his mind while he worked. But, at the moment, he wanted nothing more than to stay in bed, ignore the world, and pretend that the last ten years had never happened.

~TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! A special thanks to d: for the idea about Charles's motorized wheelchair. As always, I hope you enjoy the chapter! ~lg

~oOo~

The next week passed quickly for Anne. She moved from cleaning dormitories in the east wing of the house to smaller rooms in the west wing, all of them set up as classrooms. Most had books about history, science, and mathematics, though she found one devoted to psychology and physics. The breadth of the subjects there startled her, and then she shook her head. She should have known that Charles Xavier, for all of his brilliance, wouldn't run a school focused simply on the basic subjects. After all, the sign still lying next to the front gate said "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters." At one point in time, he had helped other children as brilliant as himself, and it broke her heart to realize that something had changed all of that.

What had it been? Losing his legs? Or something else? Anne finished one classroom and settled in a desk, her focus on the chalkboard hanging on one wall. She hadn't wiped it down yet, and it still held a complex algebraic equation, likely written sometime in the previous five years and never removed.

Why had Charles given up such a rewarding goal of helping others? That question, as well as the obvious evidence of his initial devotion to his school, settled over her shoulders like a depressing blanket. He had chosen to surround himself with the brightest of children, and it still hadn't been enough. Maybe a woman? Had he been disappointed in love and let that destroy him? Based on what she knew of him, Charles had never been the type to tie himself to one woman for everything, so she doubted the loss of a lover would take his drive and hope away.

So what?

Knowing that she'd never get the answer by sitting in this room, Anne pushed to her feet and finished the sweeping. But her drive to clean another room that day had vanished. Thinking back to Charles's words the first evening she'd joined him in the library, she decided to take him up on his offer of a day off now and then. Snagging her knitting bag and a couple bottles to fill with water, she slipped out of the house and wandered through the garden until she found a patch of shade beneath a large tree. She could see the house from here, and the breeze cooled the mid-afternoon heat. Leaning her head back against the tree, she sighed deeply and let the tension flow out of her shoulders.

She really needed to get Charles out of the house. Since their talk about knitting and subconscious thinking, he had disappeared into his study or to wherever he went when he and Hank visited. He barely spoke in the mornings, looking more and more tired as the days went. And she knew he stayed up way too late. She'd seen the light under the door of his bedroom when she slipped downstairs for a late-night snack once.

Movement on the pathway next to the house caught her attention, and she glanced up as Hank walked back toward the mansion. He wore a gray set of sweats that were at least a size too large, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. However, when he saw her, he reversed his direction and jogged over to her. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all." Anne offered one of the waters to him, returning to her knitting while he downed at least half of it. "Good run?"

"What? Yeah." Hank's blue eyes darted from her to the trees to the house and back. "Listen, I wanted to ask you about something."

"Sure." Anne set her knitting down, turning her full attention to him.

"What's your opinion on Charles?"

Anne chuckled at that, not surprised to find that Hank had no idea what was going on in his friend's head any more than she did. "I thought he was spending time with you."

"No." Hank dropped to the grass. "I mean, we see each other every day, and he comes to me when he has things he wants done that he doesn't want you to do." He peeked up at her. "Like chandeliers."

Anne let out a full laugh at that. "He was pretty upset when he saw me on that ladder."

"Because he cares for you, Anne." Hank frowned. "I can see it, but I don't know if _he_ does. But that's not the point. I know you two spent a lot of time together in the evenings last week, and then he started to withdraw."

"And you wonder if I have insight?" She waited while he nodded. "Hank, you need to be ready. Charles might put on a good face, pretend that everything's okay, and charm both of us. Though he uses different methods with me than he does with you. But he's _not_ okay."

"How not okay?"

"He's falling apart." Anne couldn't shake the impression any more than she could shake her worry. "He's not talking—to either of us, obviously—and he spends too much time in his head. Before long, he's going to do something. I don't think it'll be motivated by _need_ so much as _decision_. At this point in recovery, a lot of addicts realize just how different their lives will be, how many friends they'll have to leave behind, and how many things they once enjoyed that they need to give up. That's when they flat out _decide_ to get back on the drugs or booze.

"It's different for Charles." She narrowed her eyes. "He's lost his legs, his school, his sister. He's getting back to a daily life and, while he has you and me, he's also realizing how much he's lost. And that's the danger zone for him. It's as much about what he _can't_ do as much as it is what he no longer has."

Hank listened, his gaze direct as he hung on every word she spoke. "So, what do we do?"

Anne shrugged. "Be ready. As much as you can." She frowned. "I'd love to get him out of that chair, too."

Hank gave her a startled glance. "His wheelchair?"

"His _motorized_ chair." She sighed. "Hank, by going into that motorized wheelchair where he can roll around with the move of a finger, he gave up. Getting him back into a regular wheelchair will force him to build his upper body strength, be a bit of exercise, and keep him from becoming so depressed. The exercise would do him good."

Hank thought about that for a moment. "You're right." His voice was soft, as if thinking through his options. "He won't like it."

"Why do you think I mentioned it to you first?" Anne grinned. "You forget. I know exactly how stubborn Charles Xavier can be." Her grin faded a moment later. "Hank?"

"Yes?"

"You know Charles better than me and can give me insight on how bad it got for him." She waited until he met her eyes. "And what he was taking."

Hank glanced away from her, then. "I have a. . .condition. It's not reversible, but it's manageable, and I take a serum I created to keep my body balanced." He looked toward the house. "I was able to modify it so that it treated his injury and gave him his legs back. But he used too much of it, and. . . ."

"And he let himself come to depend on the serum rather than learning to live in a balanced state."

"Yeah."

Anne sighed deeply. "And that's the struggle he faces. He knows he can walk again if he chooses, but he doesn't want to drop off the deep end. He has no balance in himself right now. Which is why a set schedule is so important. It gives him some absolutes, a way to balance his life against what his body craves." She paused until Hank glanced at her again, knowing her next question would be difficult for him to answer and for her to hear. "How bad did it get, Hank? What sort of fall out am I looking at when this all comes out?"

Hank thought for a moment, his eyes losing focus. "Bad," he said simply. "By the time Logan arrived, he was just existing. When it came out that Raven needed help, he just. . .shrugged it off at first. It took a little while for the reality to hit him that his sister needed him."

"Before that?" Anne pushed away the questions of who this Logan was and why Raven needed help.

"Before that, he was. . . ." Hank looked at the water bottle in his hands. "I did this to him. I let him have as much of the serum as he wanted, making more when he used it all. Then, he started drinking. And using marijuana. It escalated from there, and we had a couple of times when I was afraid to leave him until his body stabilized."

"He drank so much he was in danger of dying?"

Hank nodded. "He just lost too much. Melted down, and I spent all my time keeping him from dissolving into a crying, cursing mess. There was so much anger: at Erik, at Raven, at _life_. And it didn't help that the one woman he did love—the one who could have helped him—ended up with a case of amnesia. She's gone, now, off doing whatever else she wants with very little memory of the time that she pulled him through, not knowing that she's the reason he's still alive."

Anne leaned her head back against the tree, cursing under her breath. When Hank turned sharply, she shrugged. "Sorry. It's just that he's so skilled at avoiding the topic, at turning it back on me, and at being so _charming_ that I haven't been able to get an accurate read on him. It's like he knows exactly what I'm about to ask and is able to avoid it."

Hank actually laughed at that. "If there's one thing Charles Xavier is good it, it's getting into other people's heads."

"I've noticed." Anne let the matter drop, going back to her knitting. Hank excused himself a few minutes later, thanking her for the water and walking back to the house. She watched him go, making a mental note to spend more time with Hank. While her affections leaned toward Charles, Hank was his closest friend. And clearly wanted his best. Out of everyone in this house, Hank McCoy would be the answer to getting Charles through the coming time.

~oOo~

Charles saw Hank and Anne sitting under a tree, talking, and knew with very little doubt that they were discussing him. He stared out the library window, watching the emotions passing over their faces, sensing the worry coming from their direction, and debating his options. Anne expected him to fall apart, as did Hank, and he understood that they simply wanted to help him. But he didn't want their pity or their _help_. He just wanted. . . .What? To live? To be left alone?

The anger that rose up inside of him drove him back to his study, where he spent the rest of the afternoon venting as much of it as possible. Hank had already moved the broken-down couch, and Charles knew something needed to replace it. But every time he thought about it, he envisioned himself and Anne in the library and knew that bringing her into this study, closing the door, and just spending the time with her would get both of them in trouble. Anne's ethics wouldn't allow her to cross certain lines, and Charles hated that he'd debated whether or not to push them.

He decided not to, especially with the trial for her former employer looming. They spent the next two evenings in the library, little conversation flowing as Anne debated her options. In the end, she slipped out of the house two days later and drove back to New York City. She had decided to testify against her former employer, and Charles had smiled in encouragement when she left. Part of him wished he was in that car with her, providing her with the moral support she needed. But he knew he would do more harm than good. Instead, Hank accompanied her as a certified doctor, there to be her help and to speak to "their employer's" needs should the topic arise.

With nothing but an empty house, Charles wheeled around aimlessly until he ended up outside one of the classrooms. Anne had obviously been there because it sparkled, and the books on the shelves had all been dusted. Even the chalkboard had been cleaned. The hardwood floors welcomed his wheelchair, and the desks had been set in wide rows, letting him move freely as he needed. He remembered this room. Here, he had begun teaching the more advanced students the basics of genetic mutation and how it affected every person alive. He remembered that autumn, with the sunshine coming through the windows, a cool breeze in the morning, and eager listeners. Alex Summers had been one of his students, as had Sean Cassidy. Now, Banshee was dead, his life stolen by Bolivar Trask. And Alex had been drafted and sent to Vietnam. Charles hadn't heard from him since.

He felt the tears and realized he'd begun to cry. So many of their kind, so many mutants dead because one man wanted to discover the easiest way to destroy them. Erik had been right about humanity, but so had Charles. And it had torn their friendship—and the love of a woman—from both of them. Raven had loved Charles as a brother, but she had given her heart and soul to Erik Lehnsherr. Too many hurts piled on top of more grief than he'd imagined when he first met Moira MacTaggert, and he couldn't stop the pain from rolling off of him in waves.

Thankful that Anne and Hank were out of the house, Charles backed out of the classroom and sat in the hallway. Was this all he had left? Memories and hurts and a big house that was too empty? All of his hopes, all of his attempts to rebuild his life after losing Logan, all of this time that he tried to put on a happy face for Anne, and he ended up in a hallway with nothing but silent rooms and no one to care.

The shout started somewhere deep inside, and he lashed out before he even fully recognized his own actions. The vase of flowers that Anne had brought in from the garden to brighten the hallway slid across the table there and shattered on the floor. Water went everywhere, and Charles stared at it. Disgusted with himself and with life in general, he headed for the elevator and Hank's lab. It was time to end this. Time to put this wheelchair and his hopes for the school and his life as a mutant away. It was time to just disappear into life as another human being, walking to and from work, and let people like Hank and Raven find their own ways in life. Maybe, once he'd done that, he'd come back and find Anne and apologize. But he couldn't handle this anymore.

~oOo~

Anne allowed Hank to drive back to Westchester, too tired to really do much beyond stare out the window. But it was over. She had testified of the things she'd seen, and evidence dug up during an investigation had supported her claims. The rehab center would be closed down until further notice.

The victory felt hollow. Anne had given her best at the hearing, but her mind constantly returned to Charles and how he was doing. It didn't help that the defense managed to bring up Anne's past, doing all they could to point out that she'd been a former drug addict herself. However, the prosecutor had managed to convince the judge that Anne's past had no bearing on the ethical violations that she'd reported. If anything, it had prompted her to take action because she didn't want her patients to end up back on the streets, a place with which she was intimately familiar.

Now, it felt as if the road trip, already long, took forever to end, and she wound up rushing through the door and into the kitchen. Hank wasn't far behind her, and she saw nothing out of place in the kitchen. It looked as it had when she had left that morning: unused.

Turning to Hank, she frowned. "He didn't eat."

Hank slipped around her, moving through the house and flipping on lights while Anne glanced into rooms. Charles wasn't in the library, his study, or his bedroom, and she rushed up the stairs. A shattered vase, one she'd placed in the hallway just the day before, was still scattered across the floor, wheelchair marks leaving evidence that Charles had just rolled through the water rather than trying to clean it up.

"Oh no!" Hank's whisper preceded his rush to the elevator, and he met Anne's eyes. "I know where he's gone."

"Where?"

"My lab." Hank tapped a hand on the door, his impatience clear. "And that's where I keep my serum."

Anne's eyes slipped closed. "Go make sure he's okay. I'll clean this up." Somehow, she knew Charles wouldn't want her to see him like that.

Dropping her coat and purse in the hallway, she went downstairs for the broom and supplies. By the time she heard the elevator stop on the first floor, she'd managed to pick up as much of the broken glass as she could and returned most of the hallway to rights. She carried the trash downstairs, her heart breaking at the sight of the wilted flowers that she'd hoped would bring him a bit of joy.

Why had she left? She knew she needed to, but she could have insisted that Hank stay and keep Charles company. She never should have left him in this big house all day, but Charles had insisted. He had promised that he would be fine, that he'd likely read or finish getting his study in order.

Hank found her in the kitchen a short time later, his expression tired. "He's in bed."

"How is he?"

"Depressed." Hank dropped into a chair. "He didn't take the serum, Anne. He had a syringe of it next to him, but he kept saying that he didn't take any. And I'm inclined to believe him since he still couldn't walk."

"But. . .?"

"But he wanted to." Hank ran a hand over his face. "I should have stayed here."

Anne didn't have a response. How could she respond when she felt the same way? Instead, she put a hand on Hank's shoulder and left him alone, climbing the stairs to her bedroom and wishing she knew how to help Charles Xavier.

The following morning dawned bright and cheerful, the exact opposite of Anne's mood. She glared out the window at the sunshine and then forced herself to get up. It was time to make tea, time to get this day started, and time to push Charles a little out of his comfort zone. By the time he reached the kitchen, looking gaunt and worn out, she was ready with a hearty breakfast and good, strong tea.

He fixed tea as usual, though his movements were a bit slower. "Anne. I'm sorry. I know you brought those flowers inside. . . ."

"Charles, I'd rather you lashed out at the flowers than at yourself or someone else." Anne grinned at the irony. "At least you're responding."

He looked at her, his face perplexed. "Have I not been responding until now?"

"No." She held his gaze, refusing to give in to any amount of charm. "And this is healthy. Part of recovering is admitting that you need help."

"Which is why I hired you."

"And then you proceeded to pretend everything was fine, that we were friends without any sort of care in the world, and to bury what is really going on in that brain of yours." She let him look away. "Remember what you promised me? I asked that from you, and then I didn't leave Hank here. I'm sorry."

" _You're_ sorry?" Charles seemed utterly taken back. "Anne, if anyone has done more for me in the last few weeks, it's been you. I'm sorry it took me so long to see it."

They ate in silence for a time, Charles pushing his food around as much as he consumed it. Then, he sighed. "And you're right."

She blinked at him. "I am?"

"Yes." He smiled slightly. "I need to get out more, to go do things outside of this house." He looked out the window. "So, with that in mind, I was wondering if you'd like to have lunch with me. In town."

Anne wished she didn't feel the bubble of excitement that welled up inside, but she did. And she hated that she still felt such a strong attraction even when he obviously needed help. But a frisson of suspicion crossed her mind. This turn-around was too fast and far too easy. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay." She thought for a moment. "There's a small cafe I go to every time I buy groceries, primarily because there's a yarn store across the street."

Charles smirked at that. "Sounds perfect. I'll be ready around eleven?"

She let him go, not minding that he'd eaten less than half of his breakfast. Sometimes, it felt as if she was a mother with a young child around, but her feelings for him definitely weren't maternal. However, the concern that had settled into her stomach blossomed. He was trying to charm her, trying to make her think he would be okay instead of admitting that he wasn't.

 _At least he's admitting that he needs help, now. Not just because of what Hank or this Logan said, but because he sees it._

She wished she could accept that the emotional display of the previous day was all it would take. But she knew better. And that worry lingered through the morning, when she met Charles in the garage, and as she drove to town. He didn't say a whole lot, commenting only on what he remembered versus what was actually there. But he smiled when she parked at the cafe and waited patiently while she brought his wheelchair around. He'd chosen a smaller, non-motorized one for the day and insisted on wheeling himself inside. Anne followed behind him, smiling when he spoke with the waitress and followed her through the tables. He'd turned on the charm for sure, and she suddenly realized that more than one woman stared appreciatively at the well-dressed gentleman in a wheelchair.

Why couldn't Charles see what others saw? That he was still worthwhile in spite of his injuries?

Pushing the thought from her head, Anne accepted a menu from their waitress and sighed in relief as she realized she didn't have to deal with Charles ordering an alcoholic drink. Instead, the pair of them ordered a sandwich and coffee, doing their best to ignore the stares of those around them. Charles, especially, put on a good show, and Anne was grateful for that. It made it easier to play into his game while he made ironic comments about people's expressions.

Things changed, however, when he excused himself to the men's room. He hadn't been gone for thirty seconds when his spot was filled with a man nearly ten years younger with blonde hair, his shirt collar open far too low, and a gold necklace peeking out. The newcomer smiled seductively at Anne as he dragged a chair into place, tilting his head as he shoved Charles's plate aside. He set his coffee cup next to his right hand as he straddled the chair. "What's a pretty little thing like you doing with an invalid like him?"

Anne stared, open-mouthed. "Excuse me?"

"What? He rich?" The newcomer reached across the table, his voice pitched low enough that she had to lean forward to hear him. He grabbed her hand even as she tried to pull it away. "Look, honey, it's okay to admit you're faking it just to get to the money. But I figured you'd want to know what a _real_ man can do for you."

"And you're that man?" Anne drew back, yanking her arm out of his grip. "I'm here with my friend, who also happens to mean a great deal to me, so I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone." She said the last bit with her teeth ground together, seeing Charles returning from the men's room in record time. He frowned as he saw how agitated she'd become.

"Oh, come on, baby. You know you are just dying to get out of here." Her would-be seducer grinned with such cockiness that she wanted to slap him. "Away from him and all his needs. . . .Just me and you, a bottle of wine. . . ."

"First of all, I don't drink," Anne said as Charles wheeled into place behind the guy.

He took over her words. "And, secondly, she's here with me." Charles stared at the man in his spot. "She's already asked you to leave her alone. Do so."

"Or what? You'll make me?" The newcomer sat back in his chair, lifting his coffee cup in a slow motion meant to show Charles just how much power he had in that moment. "I _dare_ you."

Charles settled to one side, propping his elbow on his wheelchair arm and touching two fingers to his temple as if in thought. The man in his spot sipped his coffee, and then his eyes bugged out. He sprayed coffee all across the table, a curse coming to his lips as he shouted at the waitress. A moment later, he was on his feet, yelling that his coffee tasted like horse manure.

Anne blinked at Charles, who looked just as startled. "Ever get the feeling he's as much of a nuisance to the waitress as to me?"

"Something like that." Charles looked over their food, which was ruined. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." Anne wished she'd been able to eat more as she'd enjoyed the time with Charles, but it had been ruined by coffee that smelled like regular coffee. _What on earth was he talking about? Horse manure?_

Charles pulled out enough money to cover their meal plus a sizable tip and headed for the door after Anne collected her things. He seemed particularly intent on getting out of the cafe, though she wished she could read his expression. But it had gone carefully blank save for the fury and frustration burning in his eyes. Once outside, he nodded across the street. "That's the place you wanted to go?"

Anne smiled at the sight of the yarn store. "Yes." She glanced down at Charles. "But if you'd rather head home, I can come back at another time."

"No, you go ahead, love." He turned his wheelchair for the curb and headed across the street when there was a break in traffic. Anne rushed to catch up to him as he spoke. "I'll just wait outside."

"Charles!" Anne finally caught up to him just outside the store. "You don't have to wait."

He licked his lips, an obvious sign that something was wrong, and then stared up at her. "Anne, you do everything in my house every day. The least I can do is wait here for you." Leaning against his wheelchair, he propped his head in his hand as he had back at the cafe, two fingers resting comfortably at his temple. "I'll be right here."

Nodding uncertainly but unwilling to doubt his word, she turned and entered the yarn store. She glanced out the large windows every now and then, seeing him sitting in his chair and enjoying the sunshine. The entire time she browsed, eventually choosing yarn in varying shades of green, she thought about him. But he never moved, and he seemed much more content when she joined him, her purchases in hand.

The drive back to the house was quiet, but Anne refused to break the silence. Lunch had been a disaster, what with that guy trying to seduce her and his rant about tainted coffee, but Charles didn't seem to be taking it too badly. So, once she was inside, she thanked him for an enjoyable day and slipped upstairs, intent on finishing up a classroom she'd left half-done for her trip to the city.

That evening, after a quiet meal during which Charles told Hank all about the foul-tasting coffee, Anne retreated to her room and set about preparing her yarn. She smiled at nothing, finding comfort in the feeling of it flowing through her fingers. The outing with Charles had not gone as well as she'd hoped, and she decided she'd pick a different activity next time he wanted to get out of the house. But she was thankful he'd used his anger from the day before to get over his isolationism.

Or had he? Something in the back of Anne's mind bugged her, telling her that her acceptance of his wellness was just a little too easy. That he'd recovered from that man in the coffee shop just a bit too well. That something was terribly wrong.

A muffled shout, filled with curses and sobbing, told her that she was right. She jumped to her feet, barely remembering to grab her robe as she raced downstairs. The shouting had quieted, but she could distinctly hear Hank's voice mingling with Charles's weeping. Lingering outside the door, she listened as Charles dissolved into a blubbering mess, talking about the events at the cafe that day, how Anne had been forced to stand up for him, how he couldn't even properly clean a room without help, and how he really had no options for his life now. Anne knew it was the depression talking, but then Hank spoke, bringing everything to a standstill.

"Where did you get it, Charles?" Hank's voice was firm, not very similar to his typical hesitating ways. He waited while Charles blubbered a bit and then spoke firmly. "Where, Charles?"

"In town, okay!" Charles's voice rose again. "I got it while Anne was at the yarn store!"

Anne blinked at the wall, her heart pounding in her chest as she fought to breathe. While she was at the yarn store? Her mind went over the street, and she realized that there was a small liquor store a block away, far enough that she didn't think Charles could have wheeled down there, picked up anything, and wheeled back in the short time she was inside. But he had, and she had no memory of any bottle of alcohol.

Hank appeared in the door a moment later, his expression furious, as he held an empty bottle of Scotch. He lifted it accusingly at her, stopping when she shook her head. "I have no idea, Hank!" Tears came to her eyes. "You have to believe I would _never_ take him there! I don't even know how he got it home! Every time I looked up, he was sitting outside, enjoying the sunshine and smiling at passing children!"

Hank's expression fell, devastation and anger covering his features. He glanced back in the room, where Charles was still crying about not being able to handle it all. "Just. . .give me some time, Anne." His voice was resigned as he nodded for her to go back down the hall. She turned away, stopping when he spoke again. "I don't blame you."

 _But I blame myself_. Anne's thoughts made her tears fall, and she hurried away when Charles started moaning about "hearing them, again." Hearing what? That she and Hank were about to argue, and that Hank was about to send her packing for bringing alcohol into the home of a known addict? For all of her preaching on ethics, she had done a fine job of upholding them.

She slipped into the music room, her chest hurting and struggling to breathe as she stared out the window. Charles had relapsed, his world crashing around him. And she had not even known it would happen today.

~TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:** Apologies for the late posting. But it's still Monday where I'm at.

Thank you for all the reviews, particularly the guest reviews that I can't respond to personally! I appreciate every one of them.

I hope you enjoy the chapter! ~lg

~oOo~

The light in the music room had been left on.

Hank moved in that direction, his stomach churning. Finding Charles drunk and begging for the serum had been like a punch in the gut. The feeling only got worse when he found Anne just outside Charles's door, tears streaming and desperate to make him understand that she had not done this. Hank knew she hadn't. Charles had his ways, and, when he made up his mind, he usually got what he wanted. It irritated Hank when it happened in small things, but now it infuriated him.

Anne stood in front of the window seat in the music room, her arms wrapped around herself. The soft glow of the lamp she'd turned on highlighted the folds in her floor-length robe. It also made her dark hair seem even darker. She turned when his shoe scuffed the floor, her chin rising in spite of the tears that left tracks down her cheeks. Her entire demeanor was one of quiet dignity, though hurt radiated off of her so thickly that he didn't need Charles's telepathy to tell him how she felt. In that moment, she looked like she could be the lady of the house, a drastic change from when she first arrived.

"How is he?" Her voice was raw from crying, a clear sign that she had buried her emotions when Hank appeared.

"Sleeping it off." Hank stepped to her side, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry you had to witness that."

She nodded once, her brown eyes glittering in the light and more tears falling down her cheeks. "I have no idea how he got it, Hank," she said softly. "He was quiet the entire way home, but I figured that was his irritation with the idiot at the cafe. Not that he found a way to smuggle. . . ."

"What happened?" He saw the genuine confusion on her face, one that was bitterly familiar. He listened as she told about the man who tried to force her away from Charles and how the man's coffee tasted like horse manure. The entire incident set off every alarm in his mind, and he ended up fighting with the Beast inside of him. Finally, he sighed when Anne finished her story. "Charles is manipulative. When he wants something, he finds a way to get it."

She let out a laugh and wiped at her face. "He's an addict, Hank." Her words were sharp, her tone flat. It held none of the worry or care he'd heard when she mentioned Charles before this. "No matter how good he's done in these last few weeks, he's still craving the release. That's why I warned you to be ready."

"I know." Hank bit back the familiar taste of recrimination that climbed into the back of his throat. He had started this, his intention to ease Charles's heartbreak by giving him his legs. Instead, he created a monster, a way of escape, something that medicated the pain that nothing else could touch. Anne had only heard Charles's words toward the end, not the entire spiel about how everyone pitied him and pitied Anne for being with him and. . . .It turned his stomach to know his friend, a man he had admired since their first meeting, someone who had always been so confident, had lost all faith in himself and his abilities.

Anne sighed deeply. "He's not the man I remember." She glanced over and caught Hank's curious expression. "When I first went to Oxford, I was young and stupid. I got caught up right away with a crowd of people who, though they attended their studies, preferred the night life. And that's where I met him."

"Charles?" Hank had heard the stories and seen the telepath's penchant for pretty women even after his injury. Moira had been a prime example, sticking around even when doctors weren't certain if Charles could offer her anything. After he erased her memories, Charles had still managed to flirt with, charm, or seduce several women before the school failed.

Anne shook her head. "No. Franklin." She went back to staring at the window. "At first, we were great together. He was so sweet, and I wondered if I'd managed to find the most perfect man in the world."

Hank couldn't help but picture Raven and Erik. While Erik had always grated on Hank's nerves, he'd seen how Raven looked at the magnetic master. She had adored him, and for good reason. He had been the only one to see Raven in her blue form and accept her.

"Then," Anne continued, "after we ended up living together, he changed. Of course, it wasn't right to live with your boyfriend in those days, so we pretended I was his sister. But the effect was the same. I couldn't talk to other men or go out by myself unless it was to class or to study. But he could. And he did. Once, when he found out I'd dared to slip out for dinner with my girlfriends. . . ." She hesitated, obviously concerned by his reaction. ". . .He hit me, Hank. Many times. I learned that the only way I could escape him was when he got too drunk or I went to 'study.'

"So, I started going to the library." She smiled for a moment. "One night, as I was trying to figure a way to continue pretending to study, this young, very attractive genetics major asked if he could share my table. I nodded, concerned that Franklin would come after me, and he introduced himself."

"Charles."

"Yes." She rolled her eyes. "He didn't say anything that night, but he figured out my crazy schedule. And we would sit at that table as late as we could, talking softly while pretending absolute absorption in our studies. That way, if Franklin came around, I could act like I'd never even noticed Charles." She paused. "It was during one of those nights that I arrived at the library, bruised and with cracked ribs." She laughed and shook her head. "I'd never seen Charles so angry. His eyes turned so cold, and he stood up to go find Franklin. I knew that, if Charles confronted Franklin, then Franklin would kill him. So, I stopped him, putting myself physically in front of him. If I'd done that to Franklin, he would have slapped me out of the way. Charles didn't. He just took my arms so gently and looked me in the eye, saying, 'You're better than this, Anne. And, no matter what he says, you don't deserve this.'"

She turned to face Hank. "Charles taught me so much, Hank. He taught me that Franklin was the exception to how men treated women, that I had value in myself, and that I really did have the strength to leave. He did it by draping an arm over my shoulders when I just wanted to run, by holding my hand if I needed to cry, by serving me tea—a proper English tea—by introducing me to his sister, and a dozen other little things. All those nights, I wished he would _say_ something, pretend interest in me, or just tell me that he'd take me in the way his family had done with Raven. All I needed was a way out." She pointed back toward Charles's bedroom. "That man in there is not the Charles Xavier I knew. He's not the one who should be living here."

Hank stared at her, amazed at how much love that came off of her when she talked about what Charles had done. He doubted she realized just how deeply her emotions for Charles went, but it encouraged him slightly to realize that she had no intention of leaving. "He's the man I made him."

"No." Anne reached out, taking his hand. "You did what you thought was best. Charles is the one who took too much of your medication and got addicted. No matter how much work you put into it, you're not responsible for this."

"I came up with the treatment!" Hank pulled away from her, running a hand through his hair. "I'm the one who made his legs work, but I had no idea it would leave him so. . . ."

"Broken?"

"No, life did that." Hank turned away, wishing he could put everything into words but knowing he couldn't. "It left him addicted and changed him from the man we both knew to who he is now."

"Life will do that." She shrugged. "It did for me. It wasn't just Franklin. Charles helped me get free of him, but coming back home was another thing entirely." She turned to the window and stared out, her features bathed in a sorrow that Hank had no way of understanding. In his world, things were quantifiable, easily examined, and ultimately explained. Emotion, however, eluded him. Charles saw into people's minds, how they thought and why they believed what they did. Hank, however, was lost when someone broke down. As he was now, not certain if he should hug Anne or just leave her to herself.

She was quiet for a long time. But, when he shifted as if to leave, she glanced over and smiled at him. "We all make mistakes, Hank. Even Charles. And, as long as this remains one of his mistakes, he'll recover from it. He'll return to someone similar to the man he was."

Hank looked at her over his shoulder. "But he'll never be the same."

She shook her head. "No." Sadness echoed in her voice as she left the room. Hank didn't need telepathy to see how her shoulders dropped and know she would likely end up crying by herself. He could go to her, hold her, and just be there like a brother. But he wasn't the man she wanted. He knew that much about Anne based on how she talked about Charles. She had come here with memories of a gentle telepath who only had her best interests at heart. Instead, she ended up with a drug and alcohol-crazed shadow of her friend. Hank knew how Charles had smuggled the Scotch into the house, and he understood Anne's confusion. She genuinely had no idea he'd bought it because Charles had erased it from her memory.

And that infuriated Hank more than anything. He felt the change begin, his control slipping, and knew that a confrontation was coming. Instead of fighting the change, he ripped his glasses from his face and let it happen. As blue fur grew on his hands and around his neck, Hank made a determination. Charles needed to fight, to get that anger and emotion out before it destroyed him. And Beast insisted on making it memorable.

~oOo~

Hank waited until he heard the tea kettle the next morning before reaching for the curtains Charles had closed when he locked himself in his bedroom. He glanced at the man in the bed, noting how Charles slept soundly. This would be a rude awakening, but Hank didn't care. He had kept quiet all night long, pacing between Charles's bedroom and Anne's, his beast-like senses tuned to the slightest stirring. And he'd heard Anne's tears, though he could do nothing about them.

But he could do something about the cause. Taking no further time to think about it, he yanked them open, letting the morning sun pour into the room and directly onto the face of the sleeping drunk.

Charles groaned, half his body rolling the other way as he tried to shield his face. A few curse words slipped out, slurred by sleep, and then he blinked up. "'ank? What the bloody blue bla—Close the bloody windows, Hank!"

It was a common instruction for Charles. _Level the bloody plane! Get off the bloody chandelier, Hank!_ But this was different. Hank folded his large arms across his chest, his voice taking on a bit of a growl. "No."

Charles, who had covered his face with both arms, let one eye peek out. When he did, he groaned again and leaned over the edge of the bed. Hank had been prepared for this possibility and had positioned a trash can to catch anything Charles might bring up. He looked away, thankful that he'd never been bothered by certain biological functions. Not that he necessarily wanted to _experience_ them.

Finally, Charles flopped back on the bed, his arm over his eyes to shield them from the sunlight. "This is about last night, isn't it?"

Hank huffed a sigh, noting the left-over slur in Charles's words.

"Why else would you wake me up looking like that?"

Hank waited a moment longer. Eventually, Charles's sense of guilt would prompt him to speak.

"How bad did I get?"

There was the question. "You tell me." When he didn't respond, Hank sighed. "Do you even remember what you did?"

"I got drunk. Obviously." Charles frowned at him as he loomed over the bed. "Look, can we discuss this when I'm a little lesssss. . .hung over?"

"No." Hank glared down at his friend, alternately pleased and a little concerned when Charles slowly began pushing himself to a seated position. He didn't make it far, but at least he was upright. "I know when you got the Scotch. And I know _how_ you did it."

"I bought it."

"Let me rephrase. I know how you got it _home_ and why Anne stood in the hallway last night, panicked and crying because she thought I would fire her." Hank decided he was done pulling punches. "That woman came downstairs because she heard you shouting, and the sound of you blubbering like some overgrown baby put her on the floor, in tears. She came here because she didn't have a job due to her moral ethics, and then you did something like this!"

"Like what?" Charles insisted on being obtuse today, and Hank decided he was done.

"You telepathically pushed her, Charles!" Hank let his voice rise, not caring when Charles winced at the sound. "You violated her mind _and_ her trust! You _used_ her every bit as much as that. . .as Franklin did!"

"I'm not him!" Charles came alive at that accusation. "I'll never be him! I know what he did to her, better than you do. I was in her thoughts, and I still remember the nights she _ran_ to the library just to get away from his cruelty!"

"You _are_ like him when you do things like this!" Hank paced away from the bed so he didn't hit Charles. "When you walk all over her and her mind, when you ignore her beliefs and _force_ her to do something she would never do in any other circumstance, yes! You are _exactly_ like him!"

Charles stared at him for a moment, the silence in the room as tangible as the anger sparking between both men. Then, Charles sighed again. "Oh, my God!" The realization of what Hank had just said sent him hovering back over the trashcan, but he had very little left to bring up. He rolled back onto the bed when the heaves finished, swallowing and staring at the ceiling with watery eyes, once again at risk of breaking down.

When Hank spoke again, he deliberately softened his voice. "That woman is here because of you, Charles." He watched as his friend's head came up. "She's here because she has these memories of you that don't line up to what she sees now. But she has hope that you can be that man again. Maybe not the same, but close. And she's not letting go of that, no matter how badly you've walked all over her."

Charles leaned back against the head of his bed, his face pale and covered with a thin sheen of sweat. "You've made your point, my friend."

"Have I?" Hank narrowed his eyes, thankful his vision when he was in Beast-mode, as Alex had once called it, was perfect.

"Yes." The single word was sighed out as the full effects of the hangover took hold on Charles. "You just. . . .You have _no_ idea what it's like to wake up like this every day. To know that it takes a gargantuan effort just to go to the bathroom. You can't understand. . . ."

"No, I can't." Hank interrupted what was about to become a pity party. "But let me tell you something. _You_ have _no_ idea what it was like on that beach. No idea how it felt to realize that I couldn't do anything to help you, that you were severely injured and possibly in danger of dying! Do you even have a concept of how much you're admired? You taught me, Raven, Erik, Sean, and Alex to use our abilities! You even gave up your own chance at happiness with Moira to keep us safe. Do you have _any_ idea what that feels like? To know that the one person who ever truly accepted me, no matter what I look like, has such a hate for himself that he'd rather drink his life away?"

Charles stared, his jaw hanging open.

"And Anne!" Hank continued. "She is here because she _cares_ , Charles. She doesn't see a wheelchair or what you can no longer do. She sees a man who rescued her years ago, and she wants to return the favor. She lives here, keeping to this house day after day, cleaning rooms and cooking meals. She doesn't even go out for personal needs except when she shops for _us_. She's as friend _less_ as either of us, and she made a _choice_ to be that way! Why? Because she cares about what happens to you, Charles! Because, whether you or she wants to admit it or not, she's in love with you and refuses to leave no matter how bad it gets!" His voice had risen with that statement, a growl escaping along with it and reminding him of just how beastly he could be.

Charles didn't say anything, continuing to stare before closing his eyes and covering his face. Hank knew the headache had to be excruciating, but he didn't care. Charles needed to realize that his life wasn't as bad as he thought, no matter who had left or what he'd lost. But Hank was done talking. He let go of the Beast, letting the blue fade back into his normal, slight frame. Taking a breath as his vision blurred due to his lack of glasses, he stared at his friend. "I'm going to town today, Charles. And I'm spending a good deal of your money."

Charles dropped his hand. "On what?" he asked tiredly.

"Your apology." Hank left then, his emotions as frayed as Anne's and Charles's. He slipped into the kitchen briefly to see that Anne had made coffee—good, strong coffee—with eggs and toast, the perfect breakfast for a hungover drunk. But she was nowhere to be found, and Hank didn't blame her. Instead, he fixed a plate for Charles, downed a cup of coffee, delivered the breakfast tray, and went upstairs for a shower. Charles never spoke during that time, his gaze fixed on the sunshine pouring into his room. Hank could almost hear his thoughts, but he didn't interrupt. Charles needed to think, and Hank needed to work.

He knew of no other way to help his friend beyond what he had in mind, and it would take a great deal of effort to get it done within a few days.

~oOo~

Anne left the mansion just after cooking breakfast, driving to town to fill up the car and then picking a direction. As she drove north, the sun rose until it stood overhead. She stopped somewhere for lunch, a small cafe that cost more than she typically spent. But she had very little need to spend the generous salary that Charles gave her, so she took a few moments to enjoy tea and a light lunch before turning the car back toward Xavier Mansion.

How could she have thought she could make a difference? Yes, she knew what to do when a patient had a relapse. She understood how their minds worked, and she realized that Charles likely didn't mean any of the things he'd said the previous night. What did he mean by "hearing them, again?" Was he hearing voices? Because, if he was, then there was something a lot more serious going on than she could handle. She wasn't a psychiatric nurse, not for a patient with schizophrenia. How was she supposed to handle this?

Or was that the alcohol talking? She'd seen a lot of addicts say things that made absolutely no sense, some of them never coming back from a trip. Was that what happened to Charles? Had this serum that Hank so thoughtfully devised left him broken in his mind? If so, then she was adequately trained to handle it. But she would have to separate herself from the man she remembered and the Charles that waited at home. If he'd taken a permanent trip, then none of her hopes for his recovery—and her participation in it—mattered anymore. She would stay, she knew. She would care for him and make certain his life was comfortable. But she would have to let go of long-buried hopes that she'd barely allowed to see the light of day.

The tears that overwhelmed her sent her pulling to the side of the road not far from town. She bowed her head over the steering wheel, the sobs she thought finished the night before overtaking her again. She had always been a strong person, able to look a leering addict in the face and put him or her in their place. After all, she could handle leering men and their suggestions. She'd handled them for years. But, with Charles, she had none of her defenses. He consistently slipped under them with his soft-spoken ways, that British accent, and those piercing blue eyes. Most of the time, he was considerate to a fault, and she genuinely enjoyed the hours she spent with him. The thought that all of that might be a facade, a careful mask to hide what had really happened to him dropped a stone on her chest and left her unable to breathe past the tears that choked her.

These tears weren't unfamiliar. Anne had cried like this before, most notably around the time of her return to the States. But, once she climbed out of her own pit and began to rebuild her life, she had sworn she would never visit that place again. The thought of opening those wounds, of letting Charles see just how bad it had gotten for her—all in the hopes of showing him that he really had not lost as much as he thought—caused her to panic.

"Breathe!" The order slipped out between gasps, and Anne sat back in her chair, deliberately pushing lungfuls of air into the car. The nausea faded, and she slowly felt the weight on her chest begin to subside.

Finally, able to breathe again, Anne sat back and looked at her watch. It was well past noon, about the time that she typically started cooking. And, while she had no desire to make dinner for herself, she knew that Hank and Charles both needed to eat. Putting the car in gear, she drove to town, stopping at the yarn store for a second time that week. After a quick trip to the ladies' room to wash her face and smooth on some lip balm, she spent a few heartbreaking moments looking at yarn. She'd bought a beautiful green yarn yesterday, something that reminded her of Ireland or Scotland. But she couldn't use that yarn yet. Not while the memory of what Charles had done was so fresh. So, she picked out a soft wool/silk blend that would make a great shawl for the summer, the gray and purple running through it soothing to her headache. Paying for it and ignoring the cost, she climbed back into the car and drove home.

As soon as the house came into view, she stopped and stared. It was a castle, really. Not that Charles would ever call it that. But she had no qualms about admitting it. She had cleaned countless rooms in the last month, finding more and more artifacts that belonged in a museum somewhere. Trinkets and paintings, heirlooms of the Xavier family, were coated in dust as if no one cared. And no one had until she came along. But, somewhere along the way, it had become home. She had found small places of comfort in the rooms with soaring ceilings and windows designed to let as much sunlight into the home as possible. Certain upgrades had been made as technology advanced, including kitchen appliances and a lift for Charles's wheelchair, but it still felt historic.

And she loved it.

For the first time since taking this job, Anne Conrad realized that she had reached a point in her life where she had a choice to make. Break her own heart—again—and leave Charles and Hank to themselves. Or stay, risk that broken heart, and—maybe—come to the place where she could find peace for the first time since Franklin left her damaged.

At the moment, she didn't know if she had the strength for either option.

~oOo~

Charles spent most of the day in bed. At first, he stayed there because he didn't think he had the strength to move. The sunshine that poured into his room agitated his eyes, and he kept them closed in an effort to dull the headache that pounded around in his skull. He opened them when Hank brought his breakfast, but he couldn't bring himself to care. So, he stared at the sunlight while his friend took care of the wastebasket and left a tray.

 _God, I really am an invalid._ The thought rattled through his foggy brain when Hank left him alone. He had always prided himself on getting his own food, on being self-sufficient. Yet, here he was, hung over and unable to get up long enough to eat.

Ignoring the self-recriminations, Charles picked at the eggs and toast but downed as much coffee as he could handle. He much preferred tea, but the caffeine in the black coffee shook a few cobwebs loose. It allowed him to focus on his telepathy long enough to realize that Anne had left the house and Hank was preparing to do the same.

What had he done? Over the years, he had lost friend after friend. Erik and Raven left him when he needed them the most, and then the government drafted almost everyone else. Hank, due to his work with the CIA and being Charles's primary caregiver, managed to escape the draft, and Logan had begun to fill a spot in Charles's heart reserved for those he called "brothers." Then, Erik tore Logan to pieces. Charles had seen the events, even trapped beneath that scaffolding, and he knew that, while Logan would survive his injuries, he would be gone for a very long time. And he allowed both Erik and Raven to leave.

Now, Anne and Hank had both left him. And were justified in doing so. Charles knew that Hank would be back, but he had no idea where Anne was or if she would return. And, somehow, that loss seemed even greater. So great, in fact, that Charles turned his face away from the window so that anyone daring to pass by and look in would not see him cry.

What had Hank said about her? That she was in love with him? Charles hated knowing that because it put more pressure on him to figure out what to do. He cared about Anne, more than even Hank realized, and he'd come to see her as an integral part of his life. But love had never truly figured into their relationship. Had it? Or had he been too blind to see what his kindness did to her?

"No." He whispered to his bedroom since no one was around to hear. He hadn't been blind. He'd known back in Oxford what she felt, and he'd wanted to help her. But taking her in and giving her a shelter wasn't the answer back then. Anne had needed to know she could stand on her own two feet, and so he had kept himself from caring too deeply, deliberately blinding himself to her desires.

But what about now? Now, he was the one in need, and Anne was the person qualified to help him. Their roles had been reversed, and she had matured a great deal in the last eleven years. But the feelings between them were the same. As much as she cared for Charles, he cared for her and looked at her as something akin to his salvation. Hank, for all of his awkward and beastly ways, had been a friend and enabler. Anne, however, had forced him to uphold a standard that he had let go in previous years.

And he loved her for it.

That realization, along with the echo of Hank's words, brought everything that Charles had done into stark relief. He let out a deep breath, horrified at himself. Anne had no knowledge of his genetic mutation, and she had been defenseless against him. Even in the coffee shop, when he changed that idiot's perception of his coffee—for good—she had not known that he was responsible. Now, he had to find a way to ask forgiveness for one of the deepest hurts any man could inflict upon a woman and do so while protecting Hank. Charles could care less what Anne did to him, but he could not reveal his abilities without revealing Hank's as well.

Pushing himself out of bed, Charles took a long shower, letting the water wash away the grime of his drunken binge and clear his head. He still had the headache, though this one came from the weight of his emotions. Hank had returned a short time ago, and Anne slipped through the back door and up to her room while he finished bathing. She had stopped briefly in the kitchen, and Charles let her go. He would talk to her, eventually, but not today. Not with their emotions so fragile.

But it still hurt to feel how bruised her mind seemed. And he resolved to do everything in his power to heal that bruise, even if it meant putting his desires to the side to allow one woman who meant more to him than anyone else have a life she enjoyed.

~TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone for the reviews on the previous chapter. I didn't hear from several regulars, so I hope that was because of this site's weird outage and not anything in the chapter. And apologies for not posting on Wednesday. That was due to aforementioned outage. By the time the site came back up, I couldn't find time to post.

Now, for the burning question everyone seems to be asking in their reviews: When will Anne learn about Charles and Hank and their mutations? All I will say is that this story developed in a very specific way. The characters took over, and it felt more like I was along for the ride and less like I was the actual author. The one time I tried to force something, the story ended up in the corner, unloved. When I let the characters have their way, it got back on track again.

As always, I hope you enjoy the chapter! ~lg

~oOo~

Charles found a couple pizzas on the kitchen table, one of them missing two slices. Smiling at the signs that Anne was actually eating, he gathered plates, napkins, and the pizzas, balancing them carefully on his lap as he made his way down to Hank's lab. The scientist had retreated after his blow-up, his mind filled with equations and thoughts about Magneto's helmet. The thought of his old friend made Charles frown, but he refused to dwell on it too terribly much. After all, Erik had burned his bridges, as had Raven, and Charles had long since given up worrying about them. Especially not when he had a few bridges of his own to repair.

Hank didn't look up when he first arrived, though the smell of the pizza registered with the young scientist by the time Charles raised his hand to knock on the door. Hank smiled. "Glad you're finally out of bed."

Charles offered an embarrassed grin. "I'm sorry for what you had to do this morning." He maintained eye contact with his friend. "Truly, Hank. I'm terribly sorry about all of this."

Hank stared at him, clearly looking for signs of insincerity. "I'll tell you what Anne told me last night." He narrowed his eyes. "We all make mistakes. And, as long as you let this be a mistake and not a habit, you'll be okay." The firm ultimatum took a lot out of Hank, who had always been reserved and willing to let Charles make decisions.

That sounded like something Anne would say. Charles held up the carefully balanced pile of pizza, plates, and napkins. "Had supper yet?"

Hank took the olive branch for what it was, clearing a table for the two men to eat at while letting Charles look around his lab. They stayed quiet, using the time to put pizza on plates and eat a few bites. Finally, Hank sighed. "I'm sorry, too."

"For what?"

"For all of this." Hank sat in his chair, his shoulders hunched and hands fidgeting in his lap. "If I'd never offered the serum, you wouldn't have. . . ."

Charles leaned forward, lacing his fingers together over his half-eaten slice of pizza. While he'd been hungry, he still felt a twinge of nausea every now and then as his body tried to rid itself of the Scotch he'd drank. "This is _not_ your fault." He met his friend's eyes. "Hank, you did for me what no one else could. You gave me my legs back during a time when I could have self-destructed without them. That's probably the only reason I didn't. . . ." He cleared his throat and wished he could shift in his chair easily. "I'm the one who took too much of it. It took me a long time to see that. I don't hold you accountable, Hank."

"I know. It's just. . . ." Hank also cleared his throat. "You're feeling better?"

"Yes." Charles pushed away his plate. "This apology you mentioned?"

"It'll take a few more days." Hank stood and walked over to his workbench, returning with the smallest device Charles had ever seen. He dropped it in Charles's hand, standing back while the telepath turned it over in his fingers. No larger than his thumbnail, the thing looked vaguely like a computer component, but the design was decades ahead of anything the CIA had ever developed.

Charles finally decided to ask. "What is it?"

"It's a chip." Hank moved over to the workbench, letting Charles follow as quickly as he wanted. "More specifically, a _computer_ chip. But it's not designed to operate like any computer chip these days. This does two specific things. First, it amplifies. Secondly, it charges."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Amplifies what and charges what?"

Hank glanced away. "Um. . .well, that's where I'm running into the problem." He turned back to Charles. "I managed to get my hands on a small amount of the same metal that lines Erik's helmet."

Charles narrowed his eyes. "The helmet my mind can't penetrate."

"Yeah." Hank took a deep breath. "That chip, if it works, will amplify the effects of that metal, turning, say, a necklace, into a bubble."

Charles finally understood where this was headed. "An invisible shield to keep me from Anne's mind?"

Hank smiled at his grasp of the concept. "Something like that, yes. But, because it's a computer chip, it needs power. So, I'm still tweaking it so it charges using the body's natural electrical field. It doesn't require a lot of energy, just enough to keep going."

Charles stared at the tiny device in his hand. "Hank, this is brilliant."

"Well, it was going to be for _you_ ," Hank said sheepishly. "But, last night happened, and. . . ."

"And you decided to give me a bit of a safety net that I could use to get back in Anne's good graces." Charles returned the device to its creator and sat back in his chair. "How well will this work?"

"Well, we can't be sure, but anything is possible." Hank grinned at that, reminding Charles of that week before the crisis in '62 when he got so tired of Hank's less-than-encouraging statement. "If it works at all, it'll be attenuated by the small amount of metal and area it has to cover. That's why I was thinking of a necklace. It would go all the way around her neck, letting the metal completely encircle her head. But the field. . .it could be complete, or it could be something that you can get through. We just don't know until we try it. And it would only work so long as she wore it."

Charles nodded, doing his best to think this through. He genuinely regretted what he had done, and he liked the idea of giving Anne something special. But jewelry? It smacked of romance, even if Charles presented it as something else, and he didn't want to get her hopes up until he was certain he could pull himself from this latest incident. Even now, he craved the taste of Scotch as it had burned down his throat, and all of the scattered memories of his agony during that time he'd let himself become a drunk came back in full force. He wanted more, to feel the sensation of the serum burning through his veins, to taste all the liquor he'd cleaned from the house.

But he wanted Anne's presence in his life—as a friend or otherwise—more than that. And he cared about what happened to her and Hank. He met Hank's eyes. "When will the necklace be ready?"

"Three days." Hank glanced over. "It wasn't cheap," he warned. "The jeweler I saw charged extra for this to be put at the top of his list."

Charles frowned, suddenly concerned with the images of romantic jewelry that floated through his head. "It's not going to be something like a heart, is it?"

Hank laughed at that. "No. I told him it was for my sister's birthday." He shrugged. "I figured that would stop any questions. Anyway, I told him that she likes music and plays the piano."

Charles joined the scientist in a brief chuckle. "Perfect." He backed away from the workbench. "I've got a lot of work to do to rebuild some bridges, Hank. But thank you for this."

Hank nodded. "You're welcome."

Charles left the lab, letting Hank return to his work. Much of Hank's mind was taken up with this new computer chip. And it was quite the achievement. Charles could still barely believe that something so small could do what Hank said. But he supposed that a man with a genetic mutation that allowed him to change into a big, blue, furry beast would have to believe in the impossible at times.

Once back upstairs, he rolled toward the kitchen before stopping. Anne had clearly wanted to be left alone, so he decided to take himself off to the library to read. Or think. He had too much on his mind to focus on one thing, and it was still only the first day since his. . .What? Relapse?

There was a fire in the library fireplace, though it had waned through the course of the evening. Charles frowned and then realized why. Anne had come in here, bringing a new skein of yarn to start another project. She had likely started the fire, wanting a bit of comfort after what had been a stressful day. Charles had felt her weariness when she arrived, but he'd refused to pry at all. Just because he could automatically sense her emotions the way someone else sensed warm or cold air did not mean he had the right to delve into her thoughts.

It was time he learned that lesson.

Anne didn't stir when he entered the library, and Charles took a moment to look at her. She had been knitting, but she'd set aside the project for just a few moments. It bunched on her lap, a tiny start to something too small for him to truly see what it might be. But the colors in the yarn were warm, inviting, and soothing. Now, she slept peacefully, looking for all the world like she'd stopped mid-stitch.

Charles opened his mouth to call her name and then stopped. She had come in here, obviously for comfort but because she knew she was welcome. Still, she likely did not want to be reminded of the day. And the dark circles beneath her eyes and quiet way her mind rested told him more than anything. She had spent the day in a knot, exhausting herself through emotion and an irrational desire to run. But, she had returned, and he had to be content with that.

Instead of waking her, he maneuvered his wheelchair between the couch and coffee table. They'd rearranged furniture slightly to accommodate him, and he appreciated it now. Carefully removing the knitting from her hands, Charles took a moment to ensure he didn't drop any of her stitches. A smile touched his face at the slight growl she'd given one night when she had. Then, he spread a blanket over her and, leaving the lamp on, returned to the kitchen.

What did he do now? He'd done nothing but think all day, and it had left him exhausted. But he was also wired, ready to be about his business. And his business wasn't all that important. Still, wide awake and unwilling to do much more thinking, he decided that it was time to finish in his study. The couch had been removed, and the clutter cleared. But there was still years of stuff in there to clean out, and there was no time like the present.

Charles spent most of the night working and eventually climbed into bed after setting an alarm, his mind worn out but his determination in tact.

~oOo~

The whistle of the tea kettle woke her, and Anne stretched luxuriously. She felt slightly out of sorts, the result of a day of too much emotion and not enough activity. But she was comfortable, the room was cool, and someone else was making tea.

Someone else was making tea? That thought brought her head off of the pillow, and she frowned. She wasn't in her bedroom, waking to cool sheets and a soft breeze from the window she'd opened. No, she was stretched out on a couch in the library, facing the western windows that looked over the gardens. Sunlight poured inside, just not the direct, fresh light of the morning, and birds sang outside. And a draft floated from the fireplace, likely the result of the fire she'd forgotten about the night before.

Sitting up slowly, Anne saw that she'd been covered with a luxurious blanket, the extra length causing it to fall from the couch and bunch on the floor. The fire had gone out, and her knitting sat on the coffee table, carefully placed so that stitches didn't fall off of the needles. Now that she took a moment, she remembered coming here, hoping to find Charles and recover a bit of equilibrium. But she'd found the library dark and had lit the unnecessary fire just as a way to recreate that one night when he first invited her to join him.

She had no memory of falling asleep.

Anne rubbed her eyes and sighed. Yesterday had been beyond exhausting, particularly after an emotional, sleep-deprived night. During the previous night, she had awakened every time the house shifted or settled, worried that Charles was awake and needing help. It didn't soothe her mind one bit to find Hank moving about, and she had finally left the next morning in hopes of finding peace. Instead, she just managed to tire herself out and fall asleep in the library.

But someone had looked after her. Part of her hoped it was Charles and that he'd been as careful as she imagined, but another part of her hoped that Hank, the more brotherly man in the house, had found her. Either way, she appreciated the effort.

Pushing to her feet, she glanced in a mirror near the door, noting that her hair had come out of its customary bun. Her blouse was wrinkled, but she'd worn a pair of jeans the day before. Taking a minute to tame her hair into a semi-decent ponytail, she slipped from the room and into the public restroom on the ground floor. After washing her face, she walked toward the kitchen.

Charles sat at the table, putting the finishing touches on the morning tea tray. The newspaper sat where Anne always put it, and he had managed to fix a couple of bagels and fruit. He glanced up when she appeared, his gaze as direct as possible, while Anne moved fully into the room. She didn't quite know what to say.

Charles had no problem with speaking. "Anne, I am so, _so_ terribly sorry," he said softly. His hands finally came to rest in his lap. "I acted so far out of line that I cannot begin to apologize, and I lied to you by smuggling the Scotch back here."

Anne couldn't stop the smile. He looked almost like a little boy who had disobeyed his mother than a grown man in his late thirties. Somehow, it softened the blow of what had happened two days ago. "And I forgive you, Charles." She sobered as she sat down, staring at him over the breakfast he'd so thoughtfully prepared. "But you have to understand that there will be consequences."

His blue eyes shifted as he looked away from her. "I know," he said softly. "I can't imagine what you must think of me right now, and you'd be right." He turned back to her. "But I intend to do my best to see that this never happens again."

Anne narrowed her eyes slightly. Breakfast, tea, _and_ groveling? He must genuinely feel like he'd done something horrific! "Charles, what really happened?"

He knew what she asked. She saw it in how he couldn't quite look at her, how he fiddled with the hem of his sweater, and how he finally decided to pour their tea. "The cafe," he said quietly. "When that man approached you."

"I remember." How could she forget? She'd been to that cafe numerous times and had yet to have coffee taste like horse manure.

Charles handed her tea to her, meeting her eyes as he did so. "I had no way to defend you, Anne. You're the closest thing to a friend I have besides Hank, and I truly care for you. When he approached you and would not leave, I had no way to stand up to him. He left because of a. . .fluke. . .with his coffee, and I could not find it in me to care. Not for him, anyway."

Anne sat back and sipped her tea, enjoying the taste even as Charles worked to find the right words. He had more to say, though, and she didn't want to interrupt.

"I'm like any other man," he finally said. "I want to protect those I care about, particularly those I am close to, and not being able to do that just. . . ." He shook his head as he tried to find the words for that sort of anger. "Added to the fact that I feel absolutely _helpless_ around here, it just. . . ."

"Became too much." Anne remembered feeling that way, though it wasn't physical helplessness that drove her. She had been so overwhelmed when her parents turned her out to the wide world with no support. But she had found her way, eventually discovering her work in rehabilitating a few of the countless addicts that lined New York's streets. Setting her tea cup aside, she leaned against the table until she could make eye contact. "Charles, just because you make one mistake doesn't mean you have to live there. And while trust was broken, it can be rebuilt."

"Just because someone stumbles and loses their way doesn't mean they are lost forever." Charles murmured the words as if he was quoting something.

"I'm sorry?"

He glanced up at her. "Something someone said to me one time."

"Well, they're right." Anne reached for a bagel, catching the odd expression on his face. "What?"

He chuckled then. "Nothing. It's. . . .Small steps, yes?"

Anne smiled at that. "Small steps."

They remained quiet for the rest of the meal, Anne choosing to let Charles withdraw into his thoughts. When she left after a second cup of tea, she found herself looking forward to the day. Her neck hurt from sleeping on the couch, and she hoped to make more progress on her project that evening. But, for now, she had rooms to clean upstairs and sore muscles to work through. Everything else, like helping Charles figure out the small steps, could wait for another day, when she wasn't so exhausted.

~oOo~

The next three days passed in a wary sort of peace. Anne rose early as was her custom, making tea and breakfast while Charles read the paper and Hank wolfed everything down to get back to his lab. She never gave Charles a second glance when he left her alone, but he knew the truth. He didn't want to spend a whole lot of time around her until Hank's project was complete. Rain made that a difficult thing to do on the second day, and he ended up in the library with her one evening, reading while she knitted. The quiet between them wasn't strained, and Charles found he liked having someone else around. He had managed to overcome his overt fascination with knitting, though he still found himself watching her hands sometimes. And Anne had a knack for knowing when he did. Several times, she raised an eyebrow at him as if daring him to say something. He found he enjoyed the slight flush that came to her cheeks when he simply smiled and went back to his book.

Maybe a bit of mystery was good. Maybe knowing everything about someone from the moment they met had hindered him in some way. He still sensed Anne's emotions and surface thoughts, but he'd kept himself from her mind since the day they had gone to town. And, if he told the truth, he was afraid of how easily he could influence her again. After all, he remembered how badly she had wanted to believe him and knew he could use that to manipulate her.

So, he stayed quiet and did his best to keep to himself.

Three days after his talk with Anne in the kitchen, Charles woke to bright sunshine, birdsong, and a genuine sense of contentment. Even though he couldn't feel his legs, he could stretch his arms out and enjoy the coolness of the morning. Waking with the sun had never been his preference before now, but he found that he enjoyed the quiet morning. Having his mind unencumbered by the fuzziness of alcohol or the fog of drugs taught him that being aware and present in the day meant just as much as losing his troubles behind a haze.

He had forgotten that lesson in the last week.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Charles pushed out of bed and wheeled his way into the bathroom. He had bathed the previous evening as a way to stay withdrawn but awake until his mind finally shut down. Now, he simply dressed and stared at himself in the mirror, evaluating his appearance for the first time in years.

There was not one thing about him to recommend him to anyone, let alone a woman, unless that person knew about his wealth.

Glaring at his reflection, Charles picked up a razor and turned the water back on. It had been a long time since he'd completely shaved his face, and he found he wanted the beard gone. With his hair long enough that it had to be pulled back into a ponytail, he looked unkempt. Like something that would walk out of a sleazy bar in the middle of the night.

 _Like Franklin._

"Oh my God." That thought stilled his hand as he rinsed his razor. Now that he thought about it, he did somewhat resemble Franklin. That man had misused Anne for a very long time, and he had left her with scars in her mind and on her soul. Charles had hated the man even though they'd never met, and, more than once, he'd considered letting his telepathic abilities loose on the guy. But Anne always stopped him. The thought of what she'd do if he violated that first foolish promise to do nothing had kept him from erasing the man's entire mind.

Now, he had let himself go to the point that he could compare himself with a man he'd hated. Based on the images he'd gotten from Anne's mind, Franklin had been a shaggy, careless man with no concept of anything beyond his next drink or his next fix. Looking at his half-shaven face, Charles couldn't help but see the similarities. His hair had grown in the last six months, passing his shoulders. And he'd done very little beyond keeping his beard from becoming too scraggly. His recent behavior showed a distinct desire to lose himself in a bottle of alcohol, and he had gone to Hank's lab intent on taking the serum.

Hank had been right. He _was_ just like Franklin, only worse. He'd been on the other side, condemned men like Franklin—like Erik—and then succumbed to the same weaknesses.

How had Anne put up with seeing him these last few weeks? The house had obviously reminded her of her time with Franklin, and she had worked every single day since then to erase that memory from her mind. He knew. He'd watched how diligently she cleaned and had sensed her exhaustion every night. Even now, with the second floor nearly finished, he saw the toll it took on her mind and body.

Charles quickly finished shaving, checking to make certain he'd done everything in his power to truly clean up. The shave made him look years younger, and he narrowed his eyes. The next step would be to take care of the hair.

Wheeling out of his bedroom, he found Anne and Hank in the kitchen, laughing at something that he refused to question. Hearing her laugh and seeing his friend finally relaxing with someone other than himself. . .It was as cathartic to Charles as the steady breakfast, supper, and cleaning had been. He ignored the way Anne straightened suddenly, her eyes dropping from his face to whatever occupied her hands. But, she greeted him with her standard "Good morning" and then finished setting the table.

Breakfast was quiet, as usual, though Hank and Anne shared the funny pages this morning. The two of them had developed a decent friendship in the last couple of weeks. Hank was younger than Anne by a few years, and she looked at him like a brother.

After Anne had kicked them out of the kitchen to clean up, Charles stopped Hank with a hand on his arm. "Mind taking me to town today?" He glanced over his shoulder and then admitted. "I think it's time I see a barber."

Hank blinked but nodded. "Give me an hour to get cleaned up?"

Charles narrowed his eyes, seeing the dark circles beneath Hank's. "Up all night?"

"Yeah."

"Take the time you need." He motioned over his shoulder. "I'll be in the library."

Charles followed through on his promise, seeing signs that Anne had found herself a corner she liked. A basket had appeared, with yarn and knitting needles, and he could not find it in himself to complain. Instead, he enjoyed the sensation that she had finally settled into her life and knew where she was welcome.

He just wished she'd play the piano again.

Hank appeared a short time later, and the two men chatted lightly while they loaded Charles's folding wheelchair in the car. Then, after they'd left the mansion behind, Hank glanced over. "The necklace is ready today. I figured I'd pick it up while you're getting your hair cut."

Charles nodded. "How long until you're able to put in that computer chip?" It still felt surreal to say something like that.

"Probably by this evening," Hank replied as he turned toward town. "You'll be okay while I'm gone?"

"I'll be fine." Charles glanced over at his friend. "I promise," he said softly. "No trips to the liquor store."

The two men dropped the subject as Hank parked, brought Charles's wheelchair to him, and then drove away while Charles rolled into the barber shop. It took thirty minutes for the barber to finish with his hair, but Charles stared at himself the entire time. By taking all that extra length off of his head, he somehow looked even younger, less tired, and a whole lot more like himself.

 _What will Anne think?_ He couldn't help wondering. He knew she viewed him as a friend, but he'd also seen glimpses of her thoughts about their time in England. Still, it didn't bear thinking about because he needed to find ways to move on. A haircut was simply a haircut, no matter how big it felt in the moment. It would make life easier in the mornings and keep him from feeling like a slob.

Hank returned just as he paid his bill and added a substantial tip. Charles saw his friend wave the black box and knew that the work had been done. With a nod of thanks to the barber, he followed Hank to the car and climbed back inside.

All the way back to the mansion, Charles stared out the window and tried not to think about what Anne would think. However, he couldn't help returning to his thoughts that morning. He wondered just how to overcome the awkwardness that still tried to creep into his mind every time he saw her. All of a sudden, he felt like an adolescent boy who'd peeked through the window into an older girl's bedroom. It was not a pretty feeling. Especially with that pretty little box that Hank handed over waiting patiently to be delivered to its new owner.

~oOo~

Anne decided to use the time the two men went to town as an opportunity to clean the main hallway, staircase, and foyer of the house. Before Hank had Charles's wheelchair tucked into the trunk of the car, she had found a broom, mop, dust rags, and a host of other cleaners. She set to work, the small radio she'd brought with her belting out rock songs while she cleaned. She even found herself singing along, laughing hysterically at times when she imagined Charles's reaction to her antics. But, after days of rain and stress, the time alone felt good. And she appreciated it more now that she finally had it.

She had just moved from the foyer to the staircase when a knock on the front door interrupted her thoughts. She turned down the radio and hurried to answer it, frowning. In all the time she'd lived here, she had never answered the door to a guest. The groundsmen came to the kitchen, and Hank often ordered food to be delivered there.

Reaching for the handle, Anne took a deep breath and opened the door to see a relatively young man, wearing an Army dress uniform and a duffle bag over his shoulder. He turned to her, the sunshine catching carefully-combed blond hair and startled blue eyes. "Uh. . . ."

She lifted her chin. "Can I help you?"

"I was looking for Professor Charles Xavier." Even though he made it a statement, his question could be clearly heard.

Anne smiled. "I take it you're a former student?"

The young man sighed deeply. "Yes, ma'am." He held out a hand. "Alex Summers."

"Anne Conrad." She held the door open. "Professor Xavier and Dr. McCoy are gone at the moment, but I'm certain they won't mind if you wait."

Alex glanced oddly at her. "You're a friend of the professor's?"

"Yes, from college." She shrugged sheepishly, knowing her appearance belied her calm acceptance. "And I also work here."

He raised an eyebrow. "You _work_ here?"

She smiled. "Why don't you wait in the library?" She headed that direction. "Charles can tell you everything if he wants."

Alex Summers followed her, and Anne breathed a sigh of relief when he waited in the library while she made her escape. She'd seen the sign for "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters" many times, but actually meeting one startled her.

What would it do to Charles? Anne couldn't know, but she suddenly hoped this would be what it took to help him turn his life around.

~TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Once again, I'm apologizing for not posting on Monday. It was a holiday here in the States, and we ended up camping. That threw my schedule out the window.

I hope everyone enjoys! ~lg

~oOo~

Charles knew something had changed as soon as they neared the house. He let his mind stretch toward home, picking up Anne's rather obvious discomfort and focus on making. . . Coffee? Why would she make coffee when they both preferred tea? Letting his mind roam the house, he found a presence he hadn't felt in a very long time, one that put a smile on his face. "We have company."

Hank glanced over, startled after the silence from the passenger seat. "Who?"

"You'll see." Charles thought the surprise would be good for Hank. As much as he appreciated Hank staying around, looking after the house, and generally keeping him alive, he felt the scientist had devoted too much of his time to an invalid. Not that Charles intended to keep living that way. He hoped that, in the next few weeks, he could convince both Anne and Hank that having a life away from the mansion would be good for them.

Alex Summers's visit was just the beginning.

Hank parked in the garage, and Charles had his door open before the car quit running. Hank rushed to get his wheelchair out, and Charles quickly wheeled himself inside. A ramp had been installed, taking him from the garage and directly to the kitchen where Anne was putting the finishing touches on a tea tray.

She glanced up at him, her mouth open, but any words she might have said stuck in her throat. "Uh. . . ." After an awkward moment, during which Charles wanted to hide due to the very complimentary emotion coming from her, she blinked. "You have a guest. I put him in the library."

Charles tried to smile instead of cringing at her thoughts. "Thank you, Anne."

"I'll have tea ready in a few moments." She said the words after him, and Charles pushed aside what he'd managed to garner from her mind without meaning to. She liked the haircut, but it was more than that. It encouraged her that he'd _chosen_ to make that change.

Hank caught up to him a moment later. "You're not going to tell me who it is, are you?"

"Nope." Charles pushed through the door, grin still in place, as the tall figure next to the window turned. Alex looked great in his Army dress uniform, his stance tall and proud and quite unlike the slightly rebellious young man who had gone off to war.

Hank blinked. "Havok?"

Alex grinned. "Beast!" He moved across the room, greeting a very surprised Hank in a warm hug between good friends. "Look at you! So. . .normal!"

Charles couldn't stop his laugh at that. "Hank has perfected a serum that keeps his condition in check." He turned as Anne slipped into the room, carefully looking away from him. She wore jeans and a bleach-stained shirt, evidence that Alex had caught her during one of her cleaning sprees. After she carefully settled the tea and coffee on a table near the window, he caught her attention. "Anne, I'm sure you've already met, but let me make introductions."

She smiled at their guest. "We met." Her words glossed over the embarrassment of her appearance and the uncertainty she felt toward Alex.

Charles took that as his cue to continue. "Alex, this is Anne Conrad, a good friend of mine from my university days. Anne, this is Alex Summers, a former student."

Alex politely shook her hand, his sharp eyes not missing how Charles had looked at her and the obvious comfort—or, rather _dis_ comfort—between them. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

"Likewise." Anne glanced down at Charles, her eyes still lingering on his hair. "I'll be in the kitchen." Her message was clear. She wanted a moment to herself, and the only way she knew how to cope lately was through cleaning or cooking.

Charles let her go, turning to the two younger men in the room. "Welcome home."

Alex smiled. "It's good to be back." He waited while Charles fixed tea before helping himself to the coffee. "Though I wasn't expecting it to be just you two and Ms. Conrad."

Hank made a noise as he lowered his cup from his mouth. "She prefers 'Anne.'" Then, he looked between Charles and Alex, suddenly awkward. "And, as much as I'd love to stay, I have that project to finish."

Charles let out a deep breath. Soon, he'd know if it would work. "Thank you, Hank."

Alex stayed quiet while Hank disappeared and then turned to Charles, utterly confused. "Project?"

"Yes." Charles smiled as he sipped his tea, knowing that some things did not need to be discussed. "So, you're back for a visit?"

"For good." Alex settled on a couch, the one where Anne typically sat. He glanced down at the knitting basket next to his feet and then seemed to dismiss it. "But I figured you'd already know that."

"I'm doing my best to stay out of other people's heads." Charles tilted his head to one side. "So, what now?"

"Now, I have no idea." Alex leaned his elbows on his knees. "I thought about coming here, helping with the school, and. . . ." He shrugged. "I didn't know the school was closed."

Charles stared at his tea. This was it. How did he relate to former students who had no idea of just how far he'd fallen? Alex had known him during a different time, before the serum and alcohol stole his entire life. He had so many things left to sort through, not all of them physical, and the thought of facing his losses overwhelmed him. "It was the war," he said softly, latching on to the easiest excuse. "I didn't handle it well, Alex. Between Cuba and Raven leaving and losing the school. . . ." He lifted his eyes, seeing understanding in the blue ones staring back. "I lost myself a bit."

Alex glanced at his coffee and then Charles's tea. "That why you're drinking tea instead of Scotch?"

Charles hummed slightly, a sound born of frustration more than anything. "Yes." He set aside his tea. "Also, that's why Anne is here. She's not like us, Alex. And she doesn't know anything about us beyond what was in the media recently."

Alex narrowed his eyes, taking a moment to pay attention to Charles and what he was not saying. "You trust her."

"More than she trusts me right now." Charles lifted his chin. "I hired her because she needed the job, but I asked her to come because I needed someone like her here."

"A nurse?"

"A _rehab_ nurse." Charles waited for the truth to dawn on Alex. "I'm an addict, Alex. I'm not the man I was when you left for Vietnam." The admission took a lot out of him, but he refused to back down.

To his surprise, Alex stared and then, strangely, laughed. "It's about time! I mean, you were always a little. . .unbelievable. The perfect Englishman with a huge house, gorgeous sister, and everything falling at your feet. It's nice to see you're not quite so. . . ."

"Perfect?" Charles raised an eyebrow as his guest nodded. This was a topic he truly did not want to discuss right then. "You're welcome to stay. As you always were."

Alex glanced down at the knitting basket. "What about your lady friend?"

"She's not my. . . ." Charles stopped when he saw the grin on Alex's face. Somehow, he got the impression he'd just admitted more than he wanted. "I'll speak with her. But at least stay the night."

Alex accepted with a nod, his expression going rather sober. Charles waited, knowing that Alex would speak when he was ready. When he did, it was in a tone so soft that Charles barely heard him. "Raven got us out." He glanced up. "Out of Vietnam. She waltzed in there looking like a colonel and escorted us to the plane after tossing around a few men." He paused again. "She's not the same."

"No." Charles let his gaze turn a little unfocused as he remembered January and the events on the White House lawn. "But I have hope for her." _At least, I did._

Alex stared at him. "You were at the White House."

"Yes."

"Then you know about Banshee?"

Charles couldn't stop the spike of grief at that. After most everyone left the school, he and Hank had descended into something that begged to be accepted into normal society. Meanwhile, Alex and Sean had gone off to war, and Sean had never returned. "That's one reason Raven went after Trask."

The two men were quiet, their mood shifting into one of reflection. Alex struggled to just sit still, especially as he had so many memories of being in this house with Sean and the rest of the X-Men, as Moira had called them. And Charles wished he could do something to take the weight off of his chest. Instead, after Alex had finished his coffee, he escorted him to the third floor, seeing signs that Hank had tried to keep it fairly clean, and showed his guest to a bedroom. Then, he retreated to Cerebro.

He could do this. He could rebuild his life. But, in that moment, he realized that it would never be the same again.

~oOo~

Charles had cut his hair! Anne wished that thought didn't keep reverberating in her mind like it did, but she couldn't stop it. When he'd rolled into the kitchen, his eyes sparkling like he and Hank had just been laughing, Anne had struggled to find something to say. She was accustomed to seeing Charles dressed impeccably, so much so that the memory of his pajama pants and house robe from the day she first came here seemed completely out of character. But having the shaggy hair gone, tamed into something that, while not perfectly short, was a lot closer to what he had worn in Oxford. . . .It had stolen her breath, partially from the glimpse of the carefree man still living beneath the addict and partially because she just forgot _how_ to breathe.

Now, as she set the table while the lasagna cooled on the stove, she wondered just what to do. Alex was obviously a good friend based on how he and Hank had greeted one another, and she'd seen the pride in Charles's eyes when he introduced the young man. But it left her wondering just where her place should be. When she ate with Charles and Hank, she typically sat to his right, a decision that Hank had made the first time they sat down to dinner. But it wasn't proper that she, a woman who had no claim on Charles beyond friendship and employment, sat at the place where a welcome guest should sit. Her time in England, as well as life in her parents' home, had taught her that the right hand of the head of household signified authority. And she had none of that here.

So, when she set the table, she set a third place for herself next to Hank, intending to watch the three men visit while able to jump up and fetch anything they might need. The table was way too long for four people, but it did Charles a lot of good to sit in this room and have a semi-normal way of life.

She had also changed for the meal, using the time the lasagna baked to clean up, pin up her hair, and make herself presentable. Her dress, a brown affair with little orange flowers all over it, ended just above her knee and belted around her waist. It didn't matter to her that she'd found it in a second-hand store a few months back. She liked how it fit, and she hoped it worked for a good meal. At least it was better than a stained shirt and jeans.

Charles led the way into the dining room as Anne set the salad on the table. The lasagna had already been served, and she waited while she watched the three men. Alex had changed out of his uniform, choosing a leather jacket and denim jeans with a white shirt underneath. Hank looked like he always did, his shirt a few sizes too big for his thin frame. And Charles. . . .Anne forced her attention away from him even as the evening sun caught on the hint of a beard on his jaw. Combined with his new haircut, it left her searching for more air and trying not to be so obvious.

However, her hesitation cost her. Hank waved Alex into the chair next to him, leaving Anne with no other choice but to sit where she'd planned to place their guest. Hoping she didn't make a fool of herself—and wondering why on Earth she'd think that when she hadn't done so before—she slipped into the chair and tried to act like this was just another dinner. She was just a friend, not sitting at Charles's right hand in any deference to her place in the household. It just. . .made sense.

Charles caught her eye and smiled at her, catching her hand under the table to give her a reassuring squeeze. Unfortunately, it did little to calm her nerves, particularly as he was not in the habit of touching her.

Dinner passed in enjoyable conversation. Alex told stories of his time with the Army. Though he sanitized them considerably, he still managed to make them fun, and Anne soon found herself laughing with Hank and Charles. With the awkwardness of his unannounced visit out of the way, Alex was quite likable, and Charles took the time to share a few of his embarrassing moments as headmaster of the school. By the time she served their dessert, Anne had managed to see a very different side of Charles, one that was both paternal and mischievous at the same time. And he'd succeeded in creating more laughter at Alex _and_ Hank's expenses.

Hank and Alex insisted on cleaning up after dinner, so Anne thanked all of them and slipped from the dining room. She felt Charles watching her as she left, a familiar sensation while still being somewhat unnerving. But she just needed to knit. To think and work out what to do now. Having Alex in the house changed the dynamic between all of them, and she still couldn't glance at Charles without the desire to stare.

How did a simple haircut make such a difference in a man? It did, however, and Anne found herself worried that she'd made a massive mistake. Coming here had been easy before because she could literally _see_ the differences between the Charles Xavier she knew at Oxford and the Charles Xavier who was an addict. Now, the two versions of the same man melded into one very attractive bundle, and Anne worried that she wouldn't be able to fulfill her professional obligations if she allowed herself to fall for him again.

And what if he found out? What if he learned that she had developed less-than-professional feelings for him? After all, he had promised that she would never have to worry about inappropriate behavior from either himself or Hank. But what about behavior from her? She knew herself and her past. And she knew that she had limits to her control.

The subject of her thoughts wheeled into the library a short time later, and Anne did her best to focus on her knitting. She had two more rows to finish before binding off this massive shawl, and she wanted it done before she went to bed. So, she deliberately counted in her mind, her thoughts on every move her hands made, while Charles selected a book from the shelves and took his place on the other couch. The clacking of her needles and occasional slip of a page turning broke the silence, and Anne found her gaze drawn back up.

He sat facing her, one leg crossed over the other and looking for all the world like the British gentleman he'd been in Oxford. But he was changed, different. . . . _Better_. That thought came to her mind as she considered the lines around his eyes and how she quite liked the light red beard that covered his jaw.

Charles turned a page. "Like what you see, love?"

Anne thought her face would burst into flames based on how hot it became. She looked back at her knitting, missing Charles's grin. "The haircut looks nice."

"I'm glad you approve," he said dryly.

She risked a glance up and saw the smirk on his face, further embarrassing her. "It's just. . . .I got used to seeing you the other way, and I. . . ."

He held up a hand. "Just like I got used to remembering you in university, yet here you are. Completely different and yet the same." He went back to his book. "I think I like this Anne better."

The statement derailed her thoughts for a moment, and she focused once again on her project. The silence between them stretched, and Anne found that, by admitting how she felt, she wasn't quite so uncomfortable in his presence. Aware of him, yes. But not feeling a bit like she shouldn't be looking. Instead, she was able to be drawn into her knitting, finishing up the last two rows before starting to bind off all the stitches on her needles.

"Relax, love." Charles's words startled her from her thoughts, and she frowned at him. He was staring this time, but with an expression of concern. "Your shoulders are near your ears, and you look like someone just took one of your knitting needles away from you."

The mental image those words produced made her laugh. "I just tense up whenever I bind off. Not sure why."

He smiled at that. "Perhaps because you don't want the project finished?"

"Or maybe because I don't know what to do with myself once it is."

"You could join me for a game of chess." The offer was so casual, so sincere, that Anne didn't know what to say for a moment.

Then, she blinked. "I don't play chess. Remember?"

He laughed, a low sound in his chest that had caused more than a few women to swoon. "I could teach you." He nodded toward her knitting. "Finish up. I'll get the chessboard."

Wondering what she'd just gotten herself into, Anne focused on the final row of her knitting. When she did finally finish the last of a great many stitches, she set the project aside. It needed to be washed and blocked, but she did feel a sense of accomplishment.

A few moments later, she wanted to slap Charles for taking that good feeling away and setting a chessboard in front of her. But the look of absolute joy on his face, both at her confusion and his love of teaching, was enough for the moment. She decided that, whether or not she ever played chess again, she could at least indulge him for a few moments that evening. Seeing his eyes sparkle and hearing the warmth in his tone as he patiently explained each move and how to _think_ while playing chess changed him from what he'd been that morning and hinted at who he could possibly become.

~oOo~

Alex stayed quiet while he and Hank cleared the table. Dinner had been fun, a shadow of a time before the war. Back then, there had been enough people to fill this table plus one other, and the dining room had echoed with young voices and the laughter of the teachers. Alex, as the Physical Education instructor, had sat at the same table with Hank and Charles, alternately laughing or doing his best to pretend he was an adult. Because, basically, he was. The young kids looked up to him with something akin to awe, and he couldn't help trying to live up to their expectations.

Now, however, the room had echoed with laughter, but it felt empty. Banshee was gone, his piercing laugh and low chuckle a thing of the past that would never be restored. And all the others. . . .Somehow, it came down to two of the three who gathered around Moira and Charles on that beach: Hank and himself.

Anne had been there, of course, but Alex didn't quite know how to take her. When she first answered the door with her brown hair in a ponytail and a bleach-stained shirt, she had looked like the help. Like she was exactly what Charles described. But, as they walked into the dining room, Alex saw a different side. She had changed into a pretty dress, the type that would draw the attention of a man like Charles Xavier, and her hair had been pinned up in a conservative, but attractive, style. It didn't surprise Alex in the least to see the glances Charles sent her way and how Charles watched her when she laughed.

But she wasn't comfortable with them. Alex doubted it had anything to do with them being mutants. From what Charles had said, she didn't know about that detail. If anything, it had everything to do with her employer being the man she was interested in, and _that_ was an area where Alex had a slight bit of experience.

Finally back in the kitchen, he grabbed a towel and started drying the dishes that Hank had already washed. "So, what's with Anne?"

Hank glanced over at him. "She's part of the house, now." He shrugged. "I like her. And she's good for Charles."

Alex hated to think of how far Charles had fallen. Before the war, Charles had been a soft-spoken man who made his point with a firm tone if necessary, not someone who lost control. To learn that he'd become the exact opposite of that. . . . "How bad did it get?"

Hank gave him a look that was more eloquent and expressive than Alex had ever seen.

"That bad?"

Hank paused in what he was doing. "He locked himself in his bedroom one night," Hank said softly. "He'd been drinking, and I have no idea what else he'd managed to get his hands on. That was after he took the serum and could drive for himself."

"Wait. Serum?" Alex wished he knew all the current names for drugs. Was that some sort of euphemism for heroin or another drug?

Hank shrugged. "It's why I look like I do." He glanced over. "It keeps me balanced, so I can change my appearance at will. When Charles took it. . . ." He sighed deeply. "It gave him his legs back, dulled his telepathy, and turned him into a drug addict."

"And he decided he needed to end it all?" Alex struggled to believe that. They had to be talking about two different men. The one who rarely raised his voice and tried to talk Erik Lehnsherr out of killing Sebastian Shaw could not be the same person that Hank mentioned.

Rather than shaking his head, Hank nodded. "I managed to talk him down, and I don't think he ever got that bad again. But it was still enough. When Logan came around. . . ."

"Logan?" Alex really hated how out of touch he'd become. "Who's Logan?"

Now, Hank laughed—a genuine, disbelieving laugh. "You probably wouldn't believe it, but he was a man from the future."

"From the _future_?"

"Charles had the same reaction, too." Hank went on to tell Alex about the confrontation on the White House lawn, how they'd been in Paris before that, and how Raven had been instrumental in saving the President's life. By the time he finished, Alex stood with his mouth hanging open and a damp dish towel in his hands. Hank grinned at that. "That's when he decided to hire Anne," he said, bringing the conversation back to the original topic. "They know each other from college, and, like I said, she's been good for Charles."

Alex glanced over his shoulder. "She know he's in love with her?" When Hank gave him a sharp look, he shrugged. "He looks at her the same way he looked at Moira."

Hank shook his head. "No. But I don't think he knows she's in love with _him_." He laughed. "I never thought I'd be the one watching something like this and wishing I knew how to push the two of them together. Or lock them in a room."

Alex frowned at the pile of clean dishes that had accumulated while Hank told his story. Had he arrived home at any other time save after the war, he might have set about playing matchmaker with Hank. Now, however, he had to admit what he heard in Hank's tone. Charles did not need a romance right then, no matter how strong his feelings for Anne. Alex had dealt with enough during his time in Vietnam in the camps to know that, sometimes, a man just needed to have someone he liked and trusted to keep him company.

Deciding to change the topic, he grinned at Hank so the other man would know he was teasing. "So, Bozo, what's this project you're working on?"

"I'm not a bozo," Hank said softly. "And the project is a personal one for Charles. Well, it's something for Anne that Charles asked me to do."

Alex felt like his eyebrows couldn't rise any further. "He's got you making a gift for her?"

"An apology, and I'm the one who told him he would use it as such." Hank finished rinsing the sink and watched while Alex put the dishes away. "He relapsed a couple days ago. You wouldn't know it to look at him today, but he went on a drunken binge after wiping the memory of purchasing the alcohol from Anne's mind."

Alex gaped at him. How could Charles even think. . . . "I thought he hired her because of her work in the rehab centers."

"He did." Hank shrugged. "He had already asked me to keep an eye out for something like that and to help him not do it at all. Now, I'm trying to make an appropriate apology gift to _stop_ him from doing it again."

Alex felt every word that Hank spoke like a rock that settled onto his chest and into his stomach. He'd known Charles to wipe memories before, had even watched through a window as it happened with Moira. But that had been for the protection of their team and his school. The Charles Xavier he'd met when he got out of prison would never have used his abilities for personal gain, and _especially_ not for something as mundane—or addicting—as alcohol. He had too much class, too much control, and too many morals for that.

Hank clapped him on the shoulder and left him alone, probably headed to his lab. But Alex stayed rooted in place. Whenever he thought about home, whether it was while bombs were dropping on his location or on that plane after Raven escorted them there, he had always envisioned a place where an elegant telepath sat in a wheelchair, his mind not bound by his body's disabilities. He had imagined that students were still coming here, learning to use their powers, and becoming a help to society. Not that the man he admired almost as a father had slipped into. . .What? Charles had called himself an addict. And Alex knew what addicts did. They usually put everything and everyone to the side in favor of the next fix.

He left the kitchen, flipping off the light and catching a glimpse of Anne and Charles in the library, a chess set between them while Charles avidly explained something. In the past, a glass of amber liquid would have been next to Charles, and Alex would never have thought anything of it. Now, however, he found himself looking for signs that another bottle had come into the house.

And he suddenly hoped that Anne could do what Hank and time had apparently been unable to accomplish. If not, he faced the loss of the only man who had ever truly believed in him.

~TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Charles woke the next morning to a quiet house. Even though he worked to stay out of other people's heads, he still sensed every one of them. Alex was out, running and clearing his head for the morning. Anne had already brewed tea and now set about cooking their breakfast. And Hank. . .Charles frowned. He could not find Hank anywhere.

A knock sounded on his door as he finished puzzling this over and dressing for the day. Glancing up from tying his shoe, Charles blinked when Hank's mind suddenly materialized on the other side of the door. Touching two fingers to his forehead, he sent out a telepathic response. _Come in_.

Hank appeared with a silver-colored necklace dangling from his fingers, the box open to return the jewelry to it. His face was tired, but he grinned nonetheless. "Well?"

Charles took a moment to find the words he needed. Hank had done it! "Very nice." He set his foot on the footrest of his wheelchair as Hank held out the box to him. "You wore it from the lab to here?"

Hank flushed at that. "Had to test it."

Charles chuckled, more at his friend's discomfort than anything. It had been an appropriate test. "I didn't sense a thing." He looked over the necklace, surprised that such a little thing could do that. The jeweler that Hank had hired had been truly magical. Or was he a mutant? Either way, a treble clef hung from a slightly-thicker-than-normal chain, a perfectly-cut round diamond nestled into the lower curve of the clef's leg, connecting the bottom of the clef to the top of the leg. Flipping the charm over, he saw where Hank had attached the chip, hidden perfectly behind the diamond and metal, disguised so expertly that he would not have seen it had he not been looking.

Then, sensing the tiredness coming from his friend, he frowned. "Up all night again?"

"Yeah." Hank motioned over his shoulder. "Let Anne know I'll be sleeping?"

"I will." Charles thought of another thing. "Hank?"

"Yes?"

"How good is this?" He motioned to the necklace. "I mean, how _complete_?"

Hank shrugged. "Well, we know it kept you from sensing my mind. Anything else, and you'll have to test it. It could be Charles-proof, so to speak. Or it may simply be a barrier you have to get through."

"Either way, it'll be peace of mind." Charles let Hank leave then, his mind whirling. He'd been anticipating this and had kept himself awake going over various speeches for how he'd give this to Anne. But, now that he had it in his hand, he had no idea what to say.

Tucking it next to his leg, he wheeled his way to the kitchen where Anne was finishing up a large breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and hash browns. She wore another of her pretty dresses, this one a dark skirt that ended just above her knee and a pale blue blouse with a faint paisley pattern. Charles knew she only dressed that way when she planned to go out for the day.

He pasted what he hoped was an appropriate smile on his face, not one that told her that he found her clothing choice a little too attractive. He did, but telling her so would only make things worse. "Good morning."

She glared at him.

Charles blinked again. "Have I done something?" He thought over the previous evening, trying his best to figure out if she'd gone to bed angry. She had been frustrated at trying to learn to play chess, but she had been forgiving and somewhat content when they said good night.

"Not yet." Anne went back to her work, dishing up the breakfast and putting each thing in serving platters designed to keep it warm.

Charles couldn't help but laugh as he reached for their morning tea. "Your confidence in me is astounding." _And probably somewhat deserved._

She rolled her eyes. "I dreamt about chess. All. Night. Long."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't understand." She finished her work and settled into the chair next to him, pouring her own tea while he watched her closely. "Your knight and bishop came alive and scaled the walls of the castle, killing my king and capturing my queen while your pawns kept watch down below."

Charles couldn't help it. As she spoke, he saw a mental image of a traditional knight-in-shining-armor combined with a bishop from the Church of England complete with black, white, and red cassock, both scaling the walls of a castle without any rope or outward sign of help. The laugh that bubbled upward and escaped was genuine, the first time he'd felt like laughing for a prolonged period of time since he last saw Raven. "I'm sorry?" he offered.

She growled at him, though he saw the sparkle of amusement in her eyes.

He figured now was as good a time as any and pulled the box away from his leg. "Perhaps this will help." He slid the box over to her. "I picked this up while I was in town yesterday. And I truly am sorry for everything that happened this last week."

She put a hand over the box. "Charles, you already apologized. You didn't have to buy me a gift."

"Yes I did." He suddenly realized just how to present this. Tapping the box, he smiled. "This is my promise to you that I will fight with everything in me until you trust me again."

She had no idea what to say, but her mind and emotions filled in the blanks. He got the vague sensation that she wanted to cry and that it had been entirely too long since someone bought something for her. He kept his smile in place as she opened it and was rewarded with her gasp of amazement. "Charles! This is beautiful!"

He shifted in his chair, using his arms to move and try to dispel the awkwardness. "Well, you like music, so. . . ." When she picked up the necklace, he decided to take this a step further. Perhaps he'd get an idea of just how close he needed to be to sense a weakness in the shield. _Keep telling yourself that, my friend_ , he thought. _You may believe it one day._ Holding out his hand, he met her eyes. "Allow me?"

Anne nodded, and he maneuvered his wheelchair to her side. Then, his fingers shaking as if he'd meant this as a romantic gesture and not one that was, however underhandedly, meant for his own protection—and her's—he carefully clasped it around her neck. He saw the flush that touched her cheeks when his fingers brushed her neck and knew how she'd responded to that small bit of contact. But, when he let out a sigh, it wasn't because of any romantic notion.

Simply put, the pressure of her emotions and thoughts had suddenly lifted off of his mind.

Anne felt for the charm, which nestled just below the hollow in her neck. "Thank you, Charles." She turned to look at him, and he suddenly realized they were too close. He would do something foolish and end up hurting her if he didn't put some distance between them.

But he stayed in place while he nodded. "You're welcome."

Alex arrived then, pulling them both out of the moment. Charles felt the way Alex wanted to give him a thumbs-up, to encourage him to pursue Anne. But the young Army private simply nodded to both of them and headed upstairs for a shower before he ate his breakfast. It showed a maturity that Alex had developed and reminded Charles of a topic he needed to discuss with Anne.

"Since he just waltzed right through and destroyed the moment." Charles decided the awkward change of topic was best handled by acknowledging that there _was_ a moment. He moved back to his customary place at the table, a touch closer to Anne than normal, and began fixing his own tea. "How do you feel about Alex staying?"

She shrugged. "It's as much his home as it is yours, Charles."

He glanced up, not surprised that she'd excluded herself. He still had not been able to bridge the gap between them that said that she was simply an employee and not someone he saw as necessary to his life and sobriety. "It's your home, too," he reminded her softly.

She nodded once. "What I meant was. . . ." She shook her head. "He lived here before the war. When he was discharged, he came back here instead of going anywhere else. A soldier ought to be welcomed by his family."

Charles suddenly realized the implications of Hank's device. He had no idea whether she was saying that simply to please him or if she truly believed it. _This is how non-telepathic humans feel all the time?_ "You're sure?"

Anne glanced up at him, clearly surprised that he'd questioned her. "Yes, Charles. I'm as certain of Alex being here as I am of you and Hank."

He nodded, going back to his breakfast and then, choosing to accept her answer, sending a smile her way while picking up the daily paper. Alex rejoined them a short while later, starting an awkward conversation with Anne while Charles simply listened. The two of them planned a trip to town—Anne for groceries and Alex to start looking for work—and he sipped his tea as they did so.

Not having Anne's mind open to him would take some getting used to, but he quite liked watching her rather than reading her thoughts. And, perhaps, things were better this way. Perhaps that mystery he'd been thinking about the other day was just what he needed.

~oOo~

The necklace sat around Anne's neck and almost burned her skin. While she knew that Charles had chosen a tastefully small piece, not something that drew attention, she felt like every person in the grocery store had glanced over at her. As a result, she hurried through her shopping before loading the car.

Now what?

She had thirty minutes before she was supposed to meet up with Alex, and she hated the thought of the cold food sitting in the car. But she had already packed it into a cooler, and she knew it would last a bit. So, she turned toward the yarn store. She didn't need any more yarn, but the act of rummaging through the bins, fingering various sorts of wool, silk, and cashmere, calmed her. She spent an enjoyable few moments just browsing, a light conversation with the proprietor keeping her occupied.

Then, she glanced outside. The cafe across the street had opened up an area on the sidewalk where customers could brave the heat of the day if they wished. And she saw Alex's lanky form lounging in a chair while he chatted with the waitress. Anne wasn't the best at interpersonal relationships, but even she read the interest sparking between the two of them. Alex had smiled at her before, but not like this. It lit up his face and sent a message to any woman watching that he was looking for a good time.

Rolling her eyes, Anne bid the owner of the yarn store goodbye and strolled across the street. Alex saw her instantly and straightened up. "I knew you had to be around here somewhere."

Anne grinned at his words and pointed at the yarn store. "My favorite place in town."

"Noted." Alex turned to the waitress with whom he'd just been flirting. "Anne, this is Rachel. Rachel, meet Anne."

Rachel was pretty, with blue eyes to match her brown hair and a bit too much makeup to be classically beautiful. But her hair was short, the curls bouncy and a little crazy around her face, and she had a friendly smile. "Hi." She glanced around. "Look, about the other day?"

Anne blinked. She had done her best to not think about the other day. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry." Rachel's smile faded, a distressed expression taking its place. "Robert's just like that. And when he saw you and your boyfriend come in, I guess he just saw an easy target."

Alex's brow lowered. "Robert? Wait. _Boyfriend_?" He turned to Anne. "You and _Charles_?"

Now, Anne's face flamed, and the necklace burned even more. But her response to Rachel slipped out about the time that Alex spoke. "He's not my. . . ." She swallowed what she was about to say when she saw the smug grin that suddenly covered Alex's face. "I _work_ for Mr. Xavier," she told Rachel. "That day, we came to town because he was tired of being cooped up in that big house of his."

Rachel narrowed her eyes. "The big one out on Graymalkin?" She glanced over to Alex. " _That's_ where you're staying?"

Anne suddenly closed her eyes, shaking her head. Somehow, a friendly conversation had turned into a very weird one. "Yes, that's where both of us live. I'm the housekeeper and cook, and Alex attended the school when it was open. Now, Mr. Xavier allows his friends and employees to live there." _But he's not my boyfriend_.

Rachel glanced between the two, and Anne was grateful for the ten years difference between herself and Alex. The young waitress nodded and then smiled, her unease fading a bit. "Either way, I'm sorry for what happened." She frowned slightly. "You know, since you and Mr. Xavier were in here, Robert has returned only once. Long enough to take a swig of coffee, spit it all over the floor, and make a big stink about it tasting like. . . ." She searched for the appropriate answer.

"Horse manure?" Anne supplied.

"Yes." Rachel's face turned slightly pink at the more polite way of saying it. "Since then, he hasn't been back."

Alex held up a hand. "Wait." When both women looked at him, he asked, "His coffee tasted like _horse_ sh—manure? _How_ does he know what horse. . .manure tastes like?"

Anne couldn't stop the laugh, and Rachel joined her. The waitress shrugged. "Beats me." Then, she glanced at Anne. "Give me a moment. The least I can do is give you a free coffee to take home for saving all of us waitresses from that. . .pig."

When she left, Alex's amusement faded so quickly it had to be a mask. "How bad was it?"

Anne knew what he was asking and settled across from him. "Bad." She shrugged. "This Robert insinuated that Charles was. . .less than a man and tried to seduce me away right in front of him. Other things had been going on, though, and Charles had been sliding downhill for a while. I knew a relapse was coming, but that one took me off guard." She sighed. "I still don't know how he got it home."

Alex frowned. "Did he touch his head, like this?" He put his index and middle finger against his temple.

"Yeah, he did. Why?"

The shock that crossed Alex's face belied the off-hand shrug he gave. "That's when you know Charles is plotting. I've seen him do it so many times, usually with unruly students."

"Why do I get the feeling there's more to it than that?"

"There is, but that's Charles's story." Alex glanced up as soon as Rachel returned with two re-usable cups.

The waitress smiled at Anne. "One for each of you." She smiled sadly. "And please let Mr. Xavier know I'm grateful for whatever happened that day."

"I will." Anne accepted the coffee, which smelled wonderful. "Thank you, Rachel." And, because she got the sense that she was intruding, she took her coffee and headed to the car. She still saw when Rachel wrote down her number on a napkin and gave it to Alex and recognized the swagger in Alex's step when he walked toward her. As he settled in the car, she sighed. "Do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Treat her right." Anne started the car and popped the clutch. Groaning with embarrassment, she tried again and got them in motion. Alex stayed quiet, which suited her just fine.

Rachel had assumed that Charles was her boyfriend.

Was that how people saw them? As a couple? She vacillated between hoping so and hoping it wasn't. After all, she _worked_ for Charles Xavier, and the thought of something more between them—while a very attractive idea—was not appropriate. Not while she was employed as a rehab nurse.

But she didn't really do anything like that, did she? No bedpans needed cleaning, no addicts to keep from leaving, no one to help through withdrawal. Instead, she cooked, cleaned, played chess, and knitted. How was that a job? If it was, then it was certainly the best job she'd ever had. After all, it just felt like a permanent vacation, one with nearly unlimited funds as Charles insisted on paying for everything and still giving her a generous paycheck. When this job ended, she'd have a nest egg set aside for several months while she found her place back in the city.

The questions and thoughts wore her out, and Anne found herself thankful for the busyness of unloading groceries. Alex helped, and Charles had obviously been waiting on them. He did what he could to put away those things he could reach, and Anne was careful to make certain anything he needed was down where he could get it. He hated asking for help and had yet to do so with Anne.

Once the groceries were put away and that evening's dinner planned, Anne slipped out the back door for a walk. She just needed to get away, to mull over the day's events. After all, receiving such an extravagant gift from her employer was something she never anticipated. What did it mean? Charles said it was a promise to her that he would do everything in his power to earn her trust. But could she use it against him? Could she wear it as a reminder of that trust? It was underhanded and manipulative, but it would be a great way to subtly push him away from the booze.

A strong breeze picked up, pushing dark thunderclouds along with it. And Anne lifted her head and smiled. Yes, she could wear this necklace, and she would do so happily if it kept Charles from another relapse. And, if it didn't, she'd be there to make certain he got the help he needed. Even if it meant not being the person to give it.

~oOo~

Anne's story about the coffee troubled Alex. His question about Charles's behavior that day—namely, his habit of touching his head—worried him. After all, Charles had used that gesture so many times that Alex could almost _feel_ the telepath working in his brain. But the Charles Xavier that Alex had known would never invade a friend's mind, inserting or erasing her memories so callously, no matter what Hank said he'd done.

The foul-tasting coffee, however, was downright hilarious.

Once all the groceries had been put away, Alex tracked Charles to his study. The other man sat behind his desk, sorting paperwork into various piles. He glanced up when Alex knocked, waving him inside and to a chair. A tea set had been settled on a small table near a window, and Alex waited patiently while Charles maneuvered his wheelchair around to serve them both tea.

Alex accepted his and took a sip out of politeness. He much preferred coffee, and he liked it black. The bitterness had a way of reminding him that he was still alive. "So, Anne told me about what happened in the cafe."

Charles set his tea aside. "Did she?"

"To be fair, Rachel brought it up." Alex didn't both explaining who Rachel was; Charles would get the information from his thoughts. "She thought you and Anne were. . .together."

Charles laughed at that. "A lot of people seem to think that."

Alex met the older man's eyes, surprised that he could be so blind. "There might be a reason." He saw the shutters that came up and how Charles wanted to protest. "Look, what you and Anne do is up to the two of you. But it's obvious you two care about each other, and not just as friends. I get that she lives and works here, but that shouldn't stop you from making a move if you're. . . ." His voice trailed off when he realized he'd likely overstepped his bounds. ". . .interested."

Charles took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Alex, I appreciate what you're trying to say. But Anne and I. . . .Our relationship isn't that easy."

"Because she works for you?"

"Because we knew each other before." Charles didn't have to specify which "before" he was talking about. "Because, back then, she was tied to a man who abused her, and she has scars from that time. And because her ethics won't allow it."

"Who better to help her?" Alex stood up. "I won't pry. But that woman out there thinks of herself as your servant. Not a nurse." He left the study then, not surprised when Charles didn't call him back. Part of him wanted to call out the telepath for manipulating Anne's mind, but he couldn't bring himself to kick a man when he was down. Besides, Charles had already more or less admitted that he'd acted out of line, and Alex decided to take him at his word.

Instead, he decided to go for a run before the thunderstorm hit. Something about the way the wind blew through the trees and the air seemed almost charged with electricity helped clear cobwebs or irritation. It was a habit he started in the military, running for exercise. Now, he found it worked for more than just shaping his body. It also gave him an outlet.

He found Anne wandering some distance from the house, her hand wrapped around the necklace she'd been wearing that day. She startled when she saw him, dropping the charm and flushing like she'd been caught doing something wrong.

Alex grinned and jogged over. "Mind some company?"

"Not at all." She glanced up at the sky. "I'm headed back, though. Last time I got caught out in a storm, Charles insisted on starting a fire and making sure I was bundled to my ears in blankets."

Alex grinned at that. She had just given him the perfect opening. "Speaking of Charles. . . ." He glanced over. "I know you work here and all, and I understand that you are comfortable with that." How did he get this to sound right? "But Charles doesn't give gifts like that necklace to people who just work for him."

Anne's flush deepened. "How'd you know?"

"Came through the kitchen this morning. Remember?" He shrugged. "Besides, I know Charles. He thinks of you as a friend. As do I. And, while I can handle it, I don't know if he can take the constant reminder that there's a difference between the two of you." Alex held up a hand when she opened her mouth to speak. "He trusts you. Like he doesn't trust very many people. He invited you into his life to see his most personal moments—like a drunken stupor—and he _wants_ you to stay here. Even those of us in the school didn't see him fall apart like that. It means something, Anne. And I hope you'll understand why Hank and I like that you're here. It's because you're Charles's hope right now. _You're_ the reason he's doing so well. It's because he doesn't want to disappoint you."

She laughed, but it was strained. "You know him well, then."

"Not as well as you do." Alex put a hand on her shoulder as they neared the house. "I just want to see both of you happy, no matter what happens."

She smiled up at him, the warmth of the expression breaking through the cool raindrops that were just starting to fall. "Thanks, Alex."

"No more reminders that you're an employee," he warned.

She thought for a moment. "I'll do my best."

And he was left with the distinct impression that she'd do so just because it bugged him, not because it bothered Charles. And, for some reason, that irritated him.

~oOo~

Being unable to read Anne's mind left Charles feeling completely out of his depth. He'd become so accustomed to finding small clues to a person's emotions and intentions from their thoughts that the absolute blank that was Anne disconcerted him. He had not realized how dependent he was on his telepathy until it was just. . .gone.

 _It was gone a few months ago, and you didn't mind._ The thought made him sigh deeply. It was true. Six months ago, he had been in a drug-induced haze, his mind numbed to the voices around him. And he'd liked it that way. Now, he had a woman who fascinated him—obviously so, according to Alex—and he hated the idea that he couldn't read her thoughts.

His dependence on his telepathy startled him. He woke every morning, sensing Hank and Alex and knowing just what they were doing. Usually, Hank either worked in his lab or slept off several nights without sleep. And Alex went for an early-morning run. But Anne had been a comforting presence, her thoughts focused on the coming day and what she hoped to accomplish. The first morning Charles woke to the whistle of the tea kettle and realized that he had no idea what Anne would do. . . .It was enough to make him consider testing the limits of the necklace that Hank had designed. But the idea left a bitter taste in his mouth, so he simply dressed and joined Anne for breakfast.

The days fell into a routine. Alex hunted for work while Anne finished cleaning the upstairs and started on the downstairs _again_. This time, however, she simply polished the floors of a room, dusted, and made certain that they looked as fresh as possible. After all, a house this size would require constant maintenance, something that he suddenly appreciated Hank for doing all those years. Within a week, Charles had adjusted to the void that was Anne's mind, which made their evenings in the library or the times she humored him over a chess board all the more enjoyable. He learned to watch her expressions, to see the indicators that she was frustrated or simply tired.

And he liked the mystery.

One evening, he wheeled into the kitchen intent on a late evening snack after spending the time alone in the library. Anne sat at the table, her focus completely on the knitting in her hand, and Charles found himself actually startled. He had not anticipated seeing her there.

She glanced up and smiled. "Sorry I didn't show up in the library."

"It's okay." Charles wheeled closer as she went back to knitting, seeing what she was doing. She had dumped some small crystal beads onto a dark towel and used a tiny crochet hook to loop the beads onto her stitches before she knitted them. The result was a partially-completed shawl that sparkled in the light. "I had hoped to play chess, but. . . ."

Anne sat back and stared at him. "Would it be horrible of me to admit that I hate the game?"

Charles grinned at that bit of honesty and pulled several cookies from the cookie jar. Anne had spent most of that day baking, and he had loved the rich smell of chocolate chip cookie dough that lingered through the downstairs area of the house. "Would it be horrible of _me_ to admit I rather enjoy teaching it to you?" Which reminded him of her dream. "Speaking of, the other day when you dreamed about chess?"

"Yes?"

"Sorry I laughed." He set the cookies on the table and went for two glasses for milk. "I just saw a mental image of a knight and an Anglican bishop, cassock and all, climbing a castle wall."

Anne chuckled at that. "It was a Catholic bishop in my dream, but pretty accurate." She set aside her knitting, rolling her shoulders to relieve tension in her back. "Could I interest you in a game of Scrabble?"

Charles made a show of thinking that over. "You know, Scrabble has never been my game." He shrugged. "At least, in the past. Raven always got mad when I used words like _pleiotropy_."

"Like what?" Her nonplussed tone amused him.

"Pleiotropy," Charles repeated. He carefully took two glasses of milk to the table. "It is a situation where a single gene has control over several traits. You see it in patients with sickle-cell disease, for example."

Understanding dawned slightly. "I see. If you can give me a definition for a word—in a way that makes sense and doesn't go completely over my head—I'll let you use it."

Charles grinned at that. He truly was not a fan of Scrabble, but Anne had been such a good sport at playing chess with him. So, he wheeled off to find the Scrabble game while she picked up the beads she hadn't used yet and cleared the table. By the time he returned, she had shifted things around so they both could reach the board.

Charles found himself drawn into the game, so much so that he laughed more than he had in a long time. Playing Scrabble with Raven had never been this much fun. Anne had a habit of making up words and arguing with him about what they meant, but he saw how much this meant to her. And he was glad he'd agreed.

Neither of them heard Hank come down to the kitchen for a snack, snicker at one of their arguments, and slip back upstairs.

~TBC


	13. Chapter 13

It took very little coaxing for Anne moved her beads and knitting from the kitchen table to the one in the library. Charles had asked her to do so, but she had not agreed. When she showed up the next evening and coopted a table placed there for student use, Charles smiled. She rearranged slightly, moving a tall lamp to the left of her chair so she could see the beads.

Watching Anne knit had always fascinated Charles, primarily because of the calming rhythm her mind managed to find. Now, watching her knit held a different fascination. He could no longer hear her thoughts or sense her emotions, but he could _see_ them. Her expression changed whether she dropped a stitch, fought with a bead, or pondered what to fix for the next day's supper. Several times, she glanced up at the door and simply stared, lost in thought, and Charles found himself wishing he could join her. She seemed so peaceful during those moments.

Unfortunately, his mind was not so peaceful.

As he finished sorting the paperwork in his study and packing away old student files, he realized just how dull his life had become. What could he _do_ with himself that would mean anything? Years ago, he had poured everything into the school. So much so that losing it had nearly destroyed him. But what sort of parent would send their children, mutant or otherwise, to a school run by an alcoholic? That dream, that desire to create a place of safety for young mutants, was gone, and Charles had no one to blame but himself.

But what other choice did he have? He had always been an academic, someone who spent his life either studying or teaching. And, with the wheelchair, working outside the home would never be easy. Not the way Alex could. He didn't necessarily _need_ the job, either. He'd found current financial paperwork on Graymalkin Industries, the company that his ancestors had established in the 1800s, and they told him that, this year alone, he would make enough that his grandchildren would never need to work.

 _If I had grandchildren._ The bitter thought swirled through his mind, and he sighed. He knew the prospect of children and grandchildren, while more difficult with his disability, was not impossible. But what woman would want him in his current state? He was wealthy, yes, but the man at the cafe had been right. He could not offer a woman the things he once had.

He just wanted his life back. He wanted to walk, to live, to be free to think about things the way he had in the past.

He wanted a drink.

Anne glanced over at him. "Is it really so fascinating?"

Her question startled him from his thoughts, and he realized he'd been watching her hands. "I'm sorry?"

She flushed, her grin somewhat embarrassed. "Is it really so fascinating to watch me knit?"

"No." Charles answered with the first thing that came to mind and knew it was the wrong thing to say when her face darkened slightly. "Well, yes. That and the way you think when you knit." He glanced away, wishing he knew how to easily explain why it fascinated him. "I can almost read your thoughts based on your expressions." He had more to say, but the words eluded him. How did he tell her that he felt utterly useless?

She set aside the knitting, checking to make sure she didn't scatter her beads. Then, she faced him and waited.

How had she known he had more to say? "It's just. . . ." He motioned toward her project. "You always have something to do. There's always another task for you to accomplish, whether it's cleaning the music room or cooking dinner or knitting a shawl. And you seem so. . .content."

"I am content."

"Well, I'm not." Charles turned toward the dark fireplace, regretting that he had not lit a fire. "I finished with my study today. Took too bloody long. But it made me think." He tilted his head to one side. "I have nothing to do."

Anne narrowed her eyes. "What do you _want_ to do?"

And there was the problem. "I don't know." He looked at his legs—his useless, frustrating, perfectly good legs rendered obsolete by a bullet in his spine. Thankfully—or perhaps not considering his recent thoughts—not everything had been rendered obsolete. When he spoke again, he mumbled. "I don't know what I _can_ do."

Anne frowned at him, something he felt more than saw. He glanced up as she shrugged. "Are you wanting to go skydiving or something?"

Charles laughed. He couldn't help it any more than he knew how to cope with his current limitations. Anne's opinion on skydiving—jumping out of a perfectly good airplane—was apparent. Wouldn't she fall apart if she learned he'd already been through one terrifying plane crash and walked out of it? "No, nothing like that."

She studied him for a moment longer. "You could. . .I don't know. . .use that fancy degree of yours and teach. I'm sure the local college would be happy to have someone like you on staff. Lord knows they probably don't attract Oxford graduates." Then, she shrugged. "Or you could travel. Or. . . ."

"Like _this_?" Charles interrupted her, motioning to his wheelchair. Did she have no concept of what traveling would be like with a cripple on the plane? Granted, he had his own plane, but elsewhere in the world, things weren't as neat or easy as they were at home.

Without warning, Anne's attitude changed. Her brow lowered, and she glared. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Do that." She motioned toward his chair. "Don't make that wheelchair your excuse _or_ your limitation."

Didn't she have any idea what he faced just getting out of bed every day? The amount of time it took to dress because the lower half of his body didn't function like it should? Or maybe she had no idea what it did to him to be in public, to see the pitying glances and hear the thoughts and accusations. Either way, he returned her glare, the pensive mood of earlier darkening like the sky outside. "Anne, I'm here—in this _bloody_ chair—for the rest of my life." He bit back on his bitter words, hating that he suddenly wanted to shout for no apparent reason. He was the one who had started this conversation, and she did not deserve his anger.

"Yes. And?" She didn't back away from the emotion in the room. "Just because you're in a wheelchair means you have to be bound to this house for the rest of your life? I'm sorry, Charles, but that's no way to live!"

He took a deep breath, schooling his voice into a soft tone. "Then what do you want me to do?"

"I don't care! But do _something_!" Anne had no qualms about raising her voice even if she wasn't shouting. "Re-open the school, teach, travel, go to art shows, paint, whatever you _want_ to do! Just don't let that wheelchair and whatever else happened when you were shot dictate how you spend the rest of your life!" Then, her irritation rolling off of her in waves that he could feel both telepathically and because of her body language, she got up and stomped out of the room, her knitting and beads still spread out on the table.

Charles stared after her. _Well, that's one weakness in Hank's design._ The random thought, combined with the anger he also felt, made him let out a hysterical chuckle. Of all the times to learn that strong emotion would bleed through Anne's shield!

~oOo~

Hank heard her coming. Had it been Charles, he might have caught the squeak of the wheelchair tire or the mechanical whirring of the motor. But he clearly heard footsteps coming toward his lab, and he glanced over to Alex, who sat at the same table where he and Charles had shared pizza one night. Both had the same thought. This new person was Anne, and she was irritated.

She swept into the lab a moment later, stopping to glance around in surprise at the neatness of it all. "So this is where you disappear to."

Hank set aside the slide he'd had under the microscope. Alex's question about his control of his powers, which seemed to develop somewhat suddenly in Vietnam, could wait. Turning to Anne, Hank straightened. "I'm surprised it took you this long to find me."

She shrugged. "Never needed to until now."

Hank narrowed his eyes, his typical awkwardness fading in light of the irritation sparking off of Anne and making her brown eyes even darker. He knew that look. "What did he do?"

She glanced at Alex and then sighed. "You were both with Charles when he was shot?"

Hank shared a look with Alex, who straightened from his slouched position. "Yes." He hated answering that question, hated thinking about the day he heard Charles shouting in pain, crying in fear, and barely able to tell them that he couldn't feel his legs. It was a fear that Hank had never fully understood, one that he hoped to never feel. None of them really talked about those moments before they got off the beach and to safety. Nor would they if Charles had his way. It was part of the past and meant to be accepted, not discussed.

Anne leaned against one of the tall stools that Hank kept at various stations around the room, folding her arms as she glared at the floor. "Did he ever fully deal with losing his legs?"

The impact of the quiet question startled both men. Hank instantly understood why Anne asked. It was necessary for her to gauge Charles's progress, how being sober for the first time in years might affect him, and how to best help him. But it still stung to realize that she might have a very good point.

Alex, however, took the question the wrong way. "Of course he did!" He leaned forward, his tone blunt. "But I think that's something you should talk to Charles about. He doesn't like his personal business discussed behind his back."

Anne met his eyes, not backing down. "I would if I could. But he wouldn't tell me the truth."

Alex glared and jumped to his feet. "Just because it's what you don't want to hear. . . ." He cut off what he'd been about to say when Hank stood and held up a hand.

"Why?" Hank didn't like the questions any more than Alex did, but he trusted Anne.

Anne turned back to Hank, her irritation fading into something much more familiar. He'd seen this same expression the day she sat under a tree and told him that Charles would have a relapse soon. It was a mix between resignation and a genuine desire to avert anything that might hurt her friend. "Because he just sat upstairs and told me that he can't teach or travel because he's in a wheelchair." She paused for a moment. "Thing is, it sounded a little like he'd just been injured ten _days_ ago, not ten years ago."

"Eleven," Alex mumbled.

Anne frowned at him, obviously not appreciating his interruption.

Alex shrugged. "It's been eleven years."

Hank, however, started thinking over the years. He had stayed with Charles at first because he couldn't control his Beast form. He was large, blue, and furry. Not something that anyone would want to see walking down the street. In many ways, he resembled drawings of the Abominable Snowman, only with Raven's distinctive coloring. But, during those years that he'd been focused on helping Charles build the school and finding a way to regulate his appearance, he'd never truly considered what might be going through Charles's head. "You might be right."

"Wait." Alex stepped forward. "You sure? She's here because she's a friend from years ago, and you think she's _right_?"

Before Hank could say anything, Anne spun on her heel to face him, her brown eyes sparking again. "Don't mistake my role here," she said in a low tone, one that reminded both men of the telepath upstairs when Charles grew truly angry. "Charles hired me because he and I were friends at Oxford, but I am not here simply to be his _friend_. I'm here because I have a _job_ to do, and that is to get him out of his depression, off the drugs, and functioning as a productive member of society. I can't do that if he's still stuck emotionally ten—eleven, _whatever—_ years ago when he lost his legs. If he's never truly dealt with that, then he won't recover."

Alex stared at her, his opinion obvious. He felt she was out of line. Not to mention wrong. And Hank understood. Charles had done more for all of them than anyone else.

Glancing at Alex, Hank tried to diffuse the situation. "She told me there would be a relapse, and she was right." He hated having to justify Anne's question, but Alex needed to know what her role in this house had been. Turning back to Anne, he said, "Within two months after he was shot, Charles started work on the school. Then, there was teaching and the war and the booze."

Anne physically deflated. "So he never dealt with it." She glanced at Alex, including him when she said, "Thanks." She left then, her footsteps loud in the basement of the house, their rhythm a lot less irritated and more thoughtful.

Hank took a deep breath, watching her go. He didn't have to be a telepath to know just how she felt. It was as if he'd just been punched, and he'd stayed with Charles through these last years.

Turning to Alex, he saw the anger in the other man. "She's right, Alex. That's why Charles hired her."

"To talk about him behind his back?"

"To ask his attending physician questions about his health and mental state that no one else would know and that Charles would never tell her." Hank rarely referred to himself in such a way, but he needed Alex to understand what role both he and Anne filled. "Anne's not trying to gossip. She's needing information that will help her deal with Charles. Her job here is to be his support, to keep him sober, and to help him recover. But it's so much more than that. She's trained to work in a group setting, drawing the cause for his addiction to the surface and helping him through releasing it." He shrugged again. "I'll admit she wasn't the most qualified applicant, but she was the only one Charles trusted. And that was more important than anything." He reached for the slide he'd been studying before Anne appeared. "She was just doing her job, just as she has for the last few weeks.

"By cleaning the house and cooking?" Alex sat back down, his expression changing from angry to confused.

Hank shrugged. "What's the first thing to go when you're angry or depressed? Appetite and your concern for yourself and your surroundings. By cleaning the house, bringing light back into the house, and cooking two good meals every day, Charles is better off emotionally and physically than he's been in years. You and I just get the benefit of a hot breakfast and homemade dinner."

Alex stayed silent for a long time, and Hank went back to his microscope. But he was too busy thinking about what Anne had said to truly make any observations. She was right in so many ways. Perhaps she saw things simply because she had not spent the last eleven years watching Charles and seeing him self-destruct.

When Alex spoke, it startled Hank from his thoughts. "He telepathically pushed her, didn't he?" His voice said he didn't need an answer and had figured it out on his own.

Hank turned and realized the truth. Alex was angry at Anne because of what she did. She revealed a weakness in Charles that Alex hadn't believed existed. In many ways, Charles was a mentor to Alex—just as he'd been to Hank—and seeing that mentor fall was nothing short of devastating.

Hank nodded. "That's why Charles gave her that necklace."

"An apology?"

"A safety net." Hank sighed. "I'd been working on a computer chip small enough to be worn inconspicuously on a person. Its sole function was to amplify the telepathy-blocking properties of the metal from Erik's helmet. I intended to make it for Charles, so that he could sleep at night. But he decided to buy a bottle of Scotch and get drunk, so I put it on the necklace for Anne. He used it as an apology gift, and it keeps him out of her head."

Alex stared at him. "Has he really come to that? So desperate that he'd use a woman he cares about?"

"He's an addict." Hank shrugged. "If it meant getting a fix or silencing the voices, he'd use any of us."

And that stung. Hank had known it for a long time and hadn't cared. As long as Charles was alive, there was hope that, one day, the former members of the school would come back, help Charles, and they'd be able to live the life they should have lived. Instead, they got Logan with his messed-up future and a rehab nurse who had known Charles years ago.

Alex stood. "I'll apologize to Anne in the morning."

"I doubt she'll even think much of it." Hank shook his head. "I never thought about it. He did so well, and he stayed busy. I never even thought that he might be using the work and the school to ignore the changes in his life."

Alex left him alone then. And Hank was grateful. He packed away his work and rode the elevator to the third floor of the house. Up here, the scientist faded, and Hank could simply be himself. He had long since come to terms with the blue furry monster, but he had rarely allowed him out in recent days. Now, he needed the quiet of the third floor to absorb the revelation of the evening.

He'd been so wrong all these years. And he hadn't even known that his closest friend had paid the price.

~oOo~

Charles sat alone, glaring into the empty fireplace, after Anne stormed out of the library. Lightning flashed outside, drawing his gaze briefly when he realized he could see the sparkle of Anne's beads. She had left her knitting spread out exactly as it had been, and he had no desire to even mess with it. This wasn't about cleaning up after her—or her cleaning up after him. This went deeper, a bigger problem that Charles hated to admit was still there.

He knew what she asked Hank and Alex, knew that she was dangerously close to finding Cerebro, and knew that their secret could be out in a startling, unforeseen way. But, for the first time, he truly didn't care.

Was he really allowing his wheelchair to bind him to the house? Charles knew the answer to that before he asked it, understood that Anne had seen the truth, and hated himself. She was right. He had spent nearly a month in the hospital, burying the emotions that went with losing sensation in half of his body, letting his plans for the school take over, and ignoring the doctors' advice about physical therapy. Then, he'd focused entirely on the young mutants he wanted to help, never taking the time to absorb what his life in a wheelchair meant. Oh, he thought about it. He knew that he could no longer reach high shelves, had to ask for help to get books out of the library sometimes, and needed to re-learn how to work in a kitchen. But the true emotional impact that everyone expected never happened. He had never fallen apart, never shouted, never showed anything beyond calm acceptance.

Then, the school failed, and Hank introduced his serum. Suddenly, Charles no longer had to be bound to the chair. Instead, he stayed bound to the house, passing the days and weeks in a drug-induced haze, using alcohol and the serum to deaden the voices he heard even with his home so isolated. He forgot about his fortress, that place in his mind that was simply his. He stopped using Cerebro, sent the last student home, and retreated to keep from being hurt again.

Had Logan never arrived, he would likely have wasted away, addicted to drugs and alcohol until they destroyed him.

Charles let out a deep breath. Anne was right. He had let this chair become his limitation, never leaving the house, never even strolling in the garden. He turned to look out the window, remembering how he'd modified the top terrace of the garden years ago. He should be able to maneuver just fine, if it wasn't for the raging thunderstorm outside. But the need to get out, to feel the fresh air, was too strong, and he moved to the window. A simple crack let in the cool air, and he smiled. The cool air felt good, too good. Pushing the window open even further, he sat back as rain spattered in, coating his face and hiding the fact that hot tears mingled with the cold raindrops.

He was a cripple for the rest of his life, and he had no way of changing that. Not if he wanted to keep the promises he'd made to Logan and his future self.

By morning, Charles was ready to simply run away. He'd tried to sleep, but Anne's words about doing something—anything—kept playing through his mind. It didn't help that he picked up on Hank and Alex's thoughts about him. They agreed with Anne, something that even Charles couldn't avoid doing. Charles couldn't feel Anne's emotions this morning and realized that she had calmed down. But, as he dressed for the day in a pair of nice jeans and a button-down shirt, he realized that they needed to talk.

And the morning was perfect for it. Charles moved toward the kitchen, already aware that Alex had come in from his run and was eating breakfast while Anne moved about with cleaning things up. Charles had slept a bit later than normal, but he sent a warm smile toward Anne anyway. She returned it, but he saw the strain in her eyes.

So he wasn't the only one who'd had a bad night.

Alex glanced between the two of them and downed the last of his coffee. "I'm taking the Mercedes," he announced, his focus on Charles. "I've got an interview at eleven."

Charles grinned at that. "Good luck."

"Thanks." Alex was nervous, especially considering his history. He'd been a convict before the CIA pulled him out of prison. While his record showed that he'd completed his sentence and was released early for good behavior, he still had a checkered past that most employers might question. Plus, he was a Vietnam veteran. Popular opinion on the war being what it was, Alex faced a pretty grueling interview.

The younger man carried his plate to where Anne was washing dishes rather than enjoying a cup of tea. He set it next to her and asked, "Anything you need in town?"

Anne took a moment to think and then wrote a short list for the grocery store. She thanked Alex and sent him on his way, her entire demeanor one of an older sister. Charles couldn't stop the stab of jealousy at the easy camaraderie between Anne and Alex. He and Anne had once shared that before life destroyed it.

Finally, not eating a whole lot and not feeling like drinking tea alone, he pushed away from the table. "Anne, would you mind joining me for a walk in the garden?" The last time he'd spoken those words, he'd erased himself from Moira's mind.

Anne turned, obviously startled by his request. "I'd love to, Charles. But. . . ."

"Let the housework go." Charles knew he'd interrupted, but he didn't care. He met her eyes. "It'll still be here in an hour. But it's a beautiful morning after a good rainstorm, and I'd like to walk in the garden."

She stared at him for a long time and then grabbed a towel to dry her hands. "Let me change my shoes," she said quietly, and then she slipped out of the kitchen.

Charles let her go, toying with the handle of his tea cup while working through what he wanted to say. He wanted to apologize, to get all the irritation off of his chest and resolve what was between them. But, for the first time in his life, he had no idea how to begin. With Raven, he'd known how she thought and what words to use. With anyone else, he typically used his abilities to gauge their reactions to him. With Anne. . . .She was wearing that necklace he'd given her, keeping him out of her mind. And, while he hadn't yet learned to read her expressions, he knew she was still irritated.

She returned a few moments later, more sensible footwear in place and a shawl around her shoulders. She looked so charming, so at peace and perfect for his house, that Charles couldn't help staring as she waited for him. Then, shaking himself from his thoughts, he turned his chair toward the back door.

For the first ten minutes, they walked in silence. Anne stayed with him, and Charles saw how she smiled and lifted her face toward the breeze. It was cool, far cooler than July had a reason to be. But the rain-washed air and moisture still clinging to the trees more than made up for the chilly temperatures. It reinvigorated him and, based on the way she tried to absorb everything, did the same for Anne.

Charles cleared his throat. "I want to apologize for last night."

Anne blinked at him. "Why?" Then, she flushed and glanced away. "I should be apologizing. I'm the one who got upset and left everything spread out."

He couldn't help it. He laughed. "Anne, how many times must I tell you that this is your home, too? Everyone here knows you're a knitter, and not one of us is going to complain about seeing the occasional hint of it. Besides, we men aren't exactly the type for knitting. We would rather watch you or ignore that it exists in the first place. Having someone else using the house besides us is. . ." He drew in a deep breath and then let it out. "It's nice."

She gave him a strained smile, one that told him she didn't believe a word he said. "I was out of line to yell at you."

"You didn't yell at me." Charles focused on the path ahead, seeing where the paving stones he'd had installed so long ago gave way to gravel. Last he remembered, his wheelchair hadn't rolled over it too well, and Moira had needed to give him a push. But that was years ago, and he had a different chair now. "You told me what I needed to hear. And you were right. I'm the one who's sorry for pushing you to that point."

Anne stopped at the edge of the paving stones and gravel, turning to stare down at him. "That's just it, Charles. You're capable of so much, and you have a lot to offer. That _chair_ doesn't matter!"

He couldn't help but grin at how she turned the word "chair" into a curse. "You're right, it shouldn't. But it does." He moved forward, feeling the drop off of the paving stones. "The glances when I go out, the pity. . . ." He shook his head. "I can't handle that."

Anne followed, not saying a word. He appreciated that she didn't try to fill the spaces with talk that didn't mean a whole lot. Besides, what could she say to him that would help? Nothing. Not really. This was a battle that Charles had to handle on his own.

Finally, she sighed. "You know what I see when I look at you?"

Charles barely stopped the laugh that bubbled up inside. He _knew_ what she thought of him, having seen and felt her thoughts at random times. She found him distracting, attractive, as a man from her past who could be so much more, and barely saw the wheelchair when she looked at him. And, if he was truthful, he saw much of the same in her. However, he hated that he needed this affirmation and aimed for a confused glance. Somehow, it worked.

She flushed slightly and turned her focus toward the trees at the western end of the house. "When I look at you, I see someone who was dealt a raw hand, who has a lot to overcome, and has the ability to overcome it. I don't see that chair as anything more than how most people see a pair of shoes. Or a car. It's there to get you from Point A to Point B, nothing more. What you _do_ at Point B is your choice. And I see that you have the power to affect more people than just the three others you have here."

Charles kept moving, not speaking after that. She truly didn't care about his wheelchair. How many others would take that sort of approach? He couldn't. To him, this chair was a limit, a huge thing that stopped him from living the life he wanted. But he hadn't lived that life even when he'd been able to walk. He had let his need for the serum and the fear of the voices in others' heads keep him just as house-bound as he was now.

 _It's not their pain you're afraid of. It's yours, Charles._ The words spoken to him by his future self were true. He hadn't feared what others might think of him, hadn't feared how others might look at him. He had feared being trapped, being stuck in a chair for the remainder of his life. And he'd let it dominate him until he became a recluse, someone afraid to even reach out, ask for help, or otherwise appear weak.

A jolt startled him from his thoughts, and Anne stopped walking to turn around. Charles looked down. The right rear wheel of his chair had become mired in a deep puddle left by last night's rain, a hindrance he hadn't seen as he thought about his life. Scowling at it, he reversed direction and managed to make two inches' progress before he stopped. A few more attempts at "rocking" the chair out of the puddle resulted in the wheel creating a rut. Charles had gone nowhere.

He needed help, something he absolutely hated.

 _I guess it's time to change things_ , he thought. Turning to Anne, he cleared his throat. "Do you mind?"

Anne smiled at him. "Not at all." She moved behind him to push the chair out of the hole. Instead, as he waited, he felt a nudge, a sudden jostle, and then her upper body suddenly fell into the back of his head and nearly pushed him out of the chair. Anne let out a yelp followed by a sudden giggle.

Charles frowned. She was supposed to be helping him! " _What_ are you doing?"

"I'm. . . ." She dissolved into giggles. Charles managed to turn enough to see her doubled over, gasping with laughter. "I'm. . .sorry! I just. . . .I don't know! This shouldn't be so funny!"

He wished he knew what "this" was so he could laugh with her.

Anne walked around the front of his chair, and he finally saw what had happened. Her right shoe and lower pant leg was covered in mud, and he suspected there would be a matching gouge in the ground behind him. The left side of her jaw had already turned red, likely due to smacking it against the handle of his wheelchair, and she struggled to keep from laughing. But, every time she looked at him, she giggled again. And, like last night when her strong emotions had overwhelmed Hank's computer chip, her amusement bubbled over.

She pulled herself to her full height, closed her eyes, and made a visible effort to keep from laughing. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to literally throw myself at you."

Charles wanted to say _so_ many things to that! Now that he thought about it, she had landed on him in a very provocative manner that, had it been anyone else, he would have believed was staged. But the red mark on her jaw was darkening, and he was still literally stuck in the mud. Besides, he wouldn't mind if Anne did throw herself at him. Perhaps he'd be able to figure out if all these emotions related to her were his, hers, or memories based on what he'd sensed in the past.

She finally gained a bit of control over her emotions and reached for the front of his chair. "Let's see if this works."

It did. She managed to drag him out of the puddle without falling again, but both of them agreed that it was time to return to the house. His wheelchair picked up rocks and flung them at him, and Charles deliberately fussed just to get a smile from Anne.

At the back door of the house, she put a hand on his shoulder. "Charles." When he looked at her, she sobered. "It's not a bad thing to ask for help. It just means you're human and make mistakes and have weaknesses. That's something we all are and do and have."

He accepted her words with a nod, knowing that she was right. But _knowing_ and _feeling_ were completely different. Instead of working on what had been said, he chose to stop her from moving past him, grabbing her hand and tugging her down to his level. Touching her jaw where the red mark had continued to darken, he met her eyes. "Are you going to be okay?"

She reached up to touch the spot and, instead, ended up laying her hand over his. "I'll be fine." Then, she rolled her eyes. "It's probably a good thing Alex went to the store for me. I tend to bruise easy, and I don't want people thinking. . . ."

Charles nodded, knowing she had stopped speaking in hopes that he'd interrupt her. But he didn't. He just withdrew his hand and rolled into the house. Anne followed closely behind, her emotions once again under control. But he saw the speculative glances she sent his way and realized the flush on her cheeks had nothing to do with how she'd fallen into him top-first. It had everything to do with that one gentle moment before they came through the door, when he'd allowed himself to show a tiny bit of how she made him feel.

A few moments later, Hank found the pair of them laughing while Anne made tea and Charles cleaned the wheel of his chair. He startled when he saw the bruise forming on Anne's face, but asking about what had happened resulted in Charles and Anne sharing a laden glance and then dissolving into laughter. Seeing that he wouldn't get a response, he left them to their tea and went back to his lab.

~TBC


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** First of all, I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed this story so far. I'm thrilled to know that, even though it has no true "action" or "adventure," you are all enjoying it.

I would like to take this moment to reiterate my trigger warning at the beginning of the story. There are elements of this story that, while I have kept them PG (or at a T rating), are rather adult. This chapter deals with one of them. So, be warned that there are references to past abuse, both physical and chemical, in this chapter. I'm the author, and I still felt a little sucker-punched when Anne revealed this.

As always, I hope you enjoy the story! ~lg

~oOo~

That afternoon, Anne found her beads and knitting in the library just how she'd left them the night before. After collecting them, she carried them upstairs and set about dusting and straightening the library. A clear glass sat near Charles's spot, and she took a moment to sniff it. No alcohol, though it worried her that he'd pulled out one of the glasses. It indicated a desire, something that she wasn't surprised to know but that could become a problem.

Charles had been unusually reserved during breakfast, but their walk in the garden had helped him let go of the tension. If anything, it had allowed Anne to release the built-up frustration in a healthy way. Laughter, no matter the cause, was always better than yelling. Granted, she could have done without the pretty spectacular bruise that made chewing her sandwich at lunch time difficult, but the look of absolute confusion on Charles's face had been worth it.

How was she supposed to help Charles cope with the reality that he would never walk again? That wasn't in her job description. He needed a psychologist, someone to walk him through the grief and anger. Her qualifications barely allowed her to operate at all outside of a physician's supervision. The last thing she or Charles needed was a nosy investigator learning that she'd done something she shouldn't.

But what about a friend? Surely a friend had the right to support another friend through a tough time. Who cared if that tough time was eleven years in the past? But that would mean she needed to resign her position and live on Charles's charity, something she refused to do. She had done that once, a long time ago. Charles didn't understand that, while he lost the ability to walk and buried his problems, she had lost herself.

Anne walked over to the window, looking over the terraced gardens behind the house and seeing the bright afternoon sunshine glitter off of damp leaves and puddles left by last night's storm. From here, she could see the puddle where his wheelchair had gotten stuck, and her fall had left an impressive gouge in the mud. Just a few moments ago, she had passed the study and overheard Charles talking on the telephone. He mentioned something about getting the landscaping done as soon as possible and knew that he wanted his garden accessible.

Was pushing him the right answer? Did she have the right to nudge Charles in one direction or the other? If so, which way was right? He didn't need to sit around and sulk all the time, but knowing what he should do left her with a slight headache and a large dose of uncertainty. Either way, the stroll this morning had been good for one thing. It got him focused on a need around the house, something that he could handle without having to feel out of his depth. Plus, by making arrangements to continue the renovations on the gardens, it allowed him to accept that wheelchair.

It was a step—a small step, admittedly—in the right direction.

A throat cleared behind her, and Anne turned. She fully expected to see Charles sitting there, but she found Alex instead. He crossed the room, his hands in his pockets and a sheepish expression on his face. "Sorry about last night," he said softly. "It wasn't my place to judge you."

Anne blinked at him, surprised. Alex was young, impulsive, and obviously accustomed to making his own decisions. That he would apologize when had had clearly believed her opinions were wrong startled her. "I could have handled it better, too."

He chuckled. "There's no handling something like this better. It's just. . . ." His voice trailed off, his gaze glued to the left side of her face. " _What_ happened?"

Anne touched the bruise that was still tender. "I fell."

"You fell?" Alex's face darkened, his blue eyes darkening and fists clenched. "Against what? A fist?"

"Uh. . . ." For a moment, Anne didn't know what to say. She had the sudden, irrational urge to hide. Alex seemed so angry that she had been hit, even though the events surrounding it had been a complete accident. Breathing back the instinctive panic that had welled up, she shook her head. "No. Against a wheelchair." Just admitting that made her flush. Her emotions had swung from fear to embarrassment in the space of a heartbeat.

Alex's eyebrows rose as if he was trying to touch them to his hairline. "I don't _want_ to know!"

Anne felt her face heat to the point of actually bursting into flames. "Not like that!" She pointed out the window. "See the puddle with the gouge out of it?" As she told him the story, she noticed that he kept smirking, likely to keep her off balance.

When she finished, he turned her jaw with gentle fingers, examining the bruise the way a brother might. "You're sure you're okay? You've iced it?"

"Yes." Anne nodded. "And please don't mention it in front of Charles. He already feels bad enough."

"Speaking of Charles." Alex glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. "Is he really doing that badly?"

"I don't know." It hurt to admit. "I'm not a psychologist or even a psychiatric nurse. I've never coached anyone through anything like this. All I've done is work with recovering addicts." She sighed deeply. "I will say that facing a loss of any kind is a big trigger. Most addicts go back to their lifestyles when they realize that they'll lose friends and lovers. For Charles, he's facing the reality that he can no longer walk. That's a bit. . .bigger." She glanced toward the cabinet where the liquor cabinet used to be. "And I know he's craving a drink at the least."

"He always had a drink next to him." Alex went back to staring out the window. "Depending on the time of day, it would either be tea or something a lot stronger."

"You were there when it happened?"

"Yes."

Anne sighed. "I want to ask what happened, but I know that's his story to tell." She shook her head. "Just do me a favor. When all of this hits and starts pouring out—because he has over _ten years_ of emotion built up—just be there for him. Because I don't know if he'll let me."

She left the library then, her emotions raging from relieved that Alex wasn't going to continue to resent her to worried that Charles would. She needed to know the answers, primarily for herself, but she knew that the events of those years would open wounds for Charles that she had no business opening. Not yet, anyway. And, by doing so, she would end up pulling away the layers for him to see what she'd gone through. She wanted him to understand that he wasn't the only one to lose a significant chunk of his life, but she hated the thought of revealing that much of herself.

What if, in his fit of emotion, he decided she should leave? She looked around at her room. She loved it here. Maybe the circumstances weren't the greatest, and she still had a lot of work to keep her busy, but she liked the house. The quiet at night, so different from the city, soothed her mind, and she was able to truly rest. How would she react if all of that was snatched away?

These thoughts and more circled through Anne's mind for the next few days. She went about her work calmly, doing her best to keep them from Charles. But she caught his confused looks and how he seemed to study her a bit closer. It felt similar to when they'd been in university together, though this was different. He no longer acted as if he could read her thoughts. And, several times, he started to say something and then stopped.

Finally, after four days, Charles cornered Anne in the kitchen after supper, while she was preparing a snack. He rolled through the door, his face determined, and sat in her way, preventing her from leaving. "Are you okay?"

The blunt question made her smile. "Yes. Why?"

"Because you're avoiding me." He lowered his chin and glanced at her jaw, which had blossomed into a brilliant array of colors. "And I'm fairly certain it's not the bruise."

Anne met his eyes. "It's not the bruise. I just have a lot on my mind."

His gaze moved to where she prepared tea, something that was so ingrained in her that she did so without thinking. "Then join me for a drink and tell me what's on your mind."

She narrowed her eyes. "With all due respect, I'd rather not."

"With all due respect, I'd rather you did." He stared at her, stubbornness pouring off of him. "Anne, it's just. . . .I know what it's like to bottle up things that bother you, and something is."

She wanted to retaliate with a sarcastic comment, but she bit her tongue. _He's one to talk._ "It's nothing." When she glanced up a moment later, she saw that he was still studying her, his expression calculating. "What?"

"Am I really so intimidating to you?"

"No." _Yes._ She wished she hadn't let the lie slip out. No matter if he was in a wheelchair or not, Charles Xavier had always intimidated her the way a man did to a woman who cared more than she should. Sighing deeply when she realized he wasn't going to let this drop, she met his eyes. "It's just that, after the other night, I have questions about what happened that you're obviously not ready to answer."

His gaze dropped from her face, going to his hands and then his chair. "Why I'm in this chair?"

"And what really happened with Raven." Anne leaned against the counter. "And those questions bring up a lot of things I've gone through since coming home—things I don't like to think about."

"Just because I tell you about what happened to me doesn't mean. . . ."

"Yes, it does." Anne shook her head. "One thing I've learned is that trust given means trust gained. And I have parts of my life that aren't pretty."

"As do I." His voice stayed soft. "Anne, when I lost my legs, I lost more than just the ability to walk. I lost my sister the same day. I was laying on the beach, a bullet wound in my back, and she walked away from me."

Anne stared. "Raven _left_ you?"

"She did." Charles lifted his chin, but she could see the pain in his eyes. "She didn't know until much later that I could not feel my legs that day. And, as much as it hurt, I would do it again if I had to."

"How'd it happen?" The question was out before she could stop it.

He took a deep breath. "A friend of mine, Erik, had just opened fire on innocent men. Another friend took a shot at him, and the bullet ricocheted into my spine."

Anne frowned. She could hear the hesitation in his voice. "You're not telling me everything."

"No, I'm not." He returned the frown. "And it's not my story to tell."

"How you ended up in the chair is not your story to tell?"

"That's not what I said!" Charles took another deep breath, clearly trying to calm himself. "The events surrounding what happened—the _other people's_ stories—are not mine. And, as much as I might want you to know everything—and I do—I cannot betray their trust."

Anne sighed deeply, reigning in her emotions. "I guess I can understand that." She met his eyes. "Sorry for shouting at you."

"You didn't shout." Charles moved to the table. "Tea?"

Anne let out a sudden chuckle at that and nodded. "Tea sounds wonderful."

Charles thought for a moment and then said, "Bring it to the library. It's more comfortable there, and I moved the Scrabble game to that room." Then, he wheeled out without so much as a backwards glance.

Anne stared after him for a moment. Charles had moved the Scrabble board? He wasn't fond of the game, but he knew she loved it. Just as she played chess with him, he had apparently decided she needed to enjoy something that was hers. And, frankly, a game of Scrabble where she could use her made-up words sounded close to what she needed. It wasn't as therapeutic as a good cry, but she refused to let Charles see that. If he did, he'd try to comfort her, and some things couldn't be helped.

~oOo~

Charles Xavier was no fool. He knew that the irritation in Anne was going to erupt, just as he knew it would when he finally had enough. But he did his best to put on a good face for her while they played Scrabble, wishing her goodnight with a smile that he knew sent shivers down her spine. No matter what it was that troubled her—and he sincerely wanted to know now that he'd limited his ability to easily read her mind—he wanted her to get some rest.

As soon as she slipped upstairs, however, his expression darkened. He thought about that day on the beach every morning, though not as deeply as he had in the last few days. Since Anne had called him on using the wheelchair as his limitation and excuse, he had taken the time to thoroughly examine his life. And he didn't like what he found.

Ever since Logan appeared, his life had gone in a generally positive direction. He'd had his moments where he slipped back into old ways of thinking, particularly when emotions or cravings became too much for him. But he'd done his best to stop himself, to recognize that going back to a drunken telepathic mute was not the answer. Too many people needed his help, and he could help them if he just put his mind to it.

But that did nothing for the emotions simmering just below the surface. Anne had been right to question him. Just in the last few days, he'd noticed a pattern. Whenever the emotions became too much, he withdrew into some random activity. He hated examining his own feelings, no matter how he often delved into others' minds. When it came to himself, he shied away from anything that might bring it to the surface.

 _It's not their pain you're afraid of. It's yours, Charles._

His future self had been right. He was absolutely petrified of what would happen if he let all this emotion escape. All his life, he'd been in control, able to think through what he said and did. Even when the stress was high, his initial reaction had always been to retreat, to find a logical way of handling it. That day with Erik, however, he had let his emotions loose. He had panicked in spite of realizing that Erik would stop at nothing. And he had acted without thought to himself.

He landed in a wheelchair because of it.

The last thing he wanted to see was another loss like that, though he suspected his own reticence was part of Anne's problem. But she did have her own issues, and he'd sensed a vague bit of guilt and shame coming from her when she snapped at him. He remembered the strain on her features when Franklin would say things or do things to her, and this was different. It went deeper, down to who she was at the core.

Unfortunately, his mind filled in all sorts of scenarios, each one worse than the last. Another two days passed, during which Charles watched Anne struggle with whatever was below the surface. Even Hank and Alex picked up on it, the two younger men giving her a wide berth whenever possible. She never truly went out of her way to be rude, but her emotions were so close to the surface that Charles had begun to consider that this might be more of a biological thing than an emotional one.

After all, weren't women this way each month?

Thinking on this, he frowned. Anne had been in his home for close to two months now. And, in that two month time period, he could not remember whether she'd been so touchy. He tried to take that into consideration, but he finally lost it when, on the third day after their Scrabble game, she snapped at Alex for asking about taking leftovers to work for lunch. Alex stared with his jaw hanging open as she stalked into the kitchen, Hank blinked at his plate, and Charles had enough.

Throwing his napkin on his half-finished plate, Charles backed away from the table.

Alex turned, stopping him from leaving. "Any idea what that's about?"

Charles shook his head. "None."

"Can't you read her mind?" Hank shrugged. "You know, when she takes the necklace off at night."

Charles had considered it, but he never knew when she would do so. Besides, some things weren't meant to be revealed in that manner. "I could. But this is. . . ." How did he describe it? "We all have dark corners in our mind, places our memories have retreated when they're too much for us to handle. Whatever this is has been relegated to the darkest corner of her memory system." He met the eyes of the other two men. "I'll handle this."

Then, he turned for the kitchen. He had no idea what he was going to say, but the temper tantrum had to stop. Rolling into the room, he saw Anne leaning over the sink, her shoulders hunched and shaking slightly. She was scrubbing at a pan, her actions so tense that they shook her entire body. Self-reproach rolled off of her so thickly that it made him blink as he tried to put it in context with the anger she'd just displayed.

Rather than speaking harshly, as had been his plan, he cleared his throat. "Care to explain what that was all about?"

Anne turned suddenly, her face tear-streaked and her eyes puffy. "I'm sorry." She straightened. "And I'll apologize to Alex."

"I don't think Alex is going to mind." Charles narrowed his eyes. "But I would like to know why my home is suddenly a war zone. If it's a. . . _woman_ thing, just say so."Not for the first time, he was thankful that he'd had a sister and had gone into a medical field. Otherwise, saying that would have been just as embarrassing as some of the medical tests he'd endured in the past.

Anne laughed suddenly, her emotions swinging so wildly he could barely keep up. "No, it's not a woman thing." She moved to the table and sat down. "I don't know why it's bothering me as much as it is. I mean, it's ten years in the past. But I can't get it out of my head."

"Get what out?" Charles moved toward her, not crowding her but letting her know he would listen. After all, he knew what it felt like to have ten years of emotion crammed up inside of him. "Normally, I wouldn't care if you kept your secrets. Everyone knows I have my own. But this is tearing you up, and it's destroying the peace of this household. If there's _anything_ I can do, I want to."

Anne stared at her hands, picking at a hang nail as she thought. "Have you ever done something that, at the time, seemed necessary? But, later, you found out there were ways around it?"

"Um. . . ." He looked at the chair he sat in. "Yes."

"Right. Silly question." Anne shook her head, more tears falling as she blinked at the ceiling. "I sort of did that after I came home from Oxford. Went off the deep end, so to speak."

Charles frowned. He knew Anne, knew that she was not impulsive when it came to her life. "You did it to survive." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Then why let it eat at you?"

"Because."

"Not an answer."

Anne closed her eyes and turned away, her words muffled by the emotion in her tone. "Because I can't stand the idea that you and Hank and Alex will look at me differently."

 _That's it? A perception issue?_ Charles's eyebrows rose as he tried to digest that. He understood hating how others looked at him and had been trying to find a way to deal with that very thing. But he was in a wheelchair. Just how bad could this be? "Anne, all of us have things we regret in our lives. Some of us more than others."

"What do you regret?" The sharp question shouldn't have needled him as much as it did.

"You want me to go down the list?"

Anne glared at him.

"Right." Charles glared back, his own anger coming to the surface. He could have kept his mouth shut, but these last few days of thinking had revealed a few things about himself that he truly hated. "Let's start with the fact that I never realized how badly you were begging for help when we were younger. Oh, and Raven's need for acceptance. I never saw that and drove her into the arms of a monster. Have I forgotten to mention that I pretty much lost everything when I lost the ability to walk? That I lost my sister, my closest friend, and _everything_ I cared about? So don't sit there and talk to me about regrets!"

"You didn't lose everything!" Anne actually sneered at him, an expression that changed her pretty features into those of another woman. "You had your house and your money and your friends."

"That's _all_ I had."

"That's all?" Anne nodded and stood up, pacing away. "At least you had a place to live."

Charles could have sworn he misheard her. As it was, the statement took every ounce of anger out of him, leaving him with a sinking feeling in his gut. "Excuse me?"

"When I came back from England, I was absolutely alone." She folded her arms, her eyes sparking at him while her anger and hurt nearly overwhelmed him. "My parents kicked me out. No food, no help, no money. Just me and the clothes on my back. _Literally_. I had no idea what to do and spent the next three weeks wandering from place to place, trying to get a job. But no one wanted to hire a girl wearing stained clothes and needing a bath.

"Then, one day, I was contemplating which restaurant I wanted to go to for food that night—you know, you can eat pretty well from a trash can—when this man approached me." She swallowed, and a wave of guilt swamped Charles. "He touched me, Charles. In a way that only Franklin had." Her eyes glittered with tears, several rolling down her face as she visibly swallowed. It felt as if she had wanted to vomit rather than saying what she did. "I let him." She looked at the darkened window. "I was hungry and alone and I let him do what he wanted in exchange for enough to eat the next day."

Charles felt the impact of those words. Of what she'd been forced to do. It settled into his chest, along with all of her emotions, and mingled with his own shame at how selfish he'd been. He had sat in this chair day after day, angry at Erik and Raven and the world for taking everything that meant the most to him. While she. . . .

Anne shrugged. "I ate on that money for three days. He came back when the money ran out, and then he started bringing his friends. Before I knew it, I had enough to buy food, enough to get a bed at a motel, and enough to get the right kinds of clothes. Not that I kept them on very long."

"How long?" Charles swallowed, trying to soothe the roughness from his voice. But he couldn't stop the anger and grief from escaping in his tone. She had been forced into. . . .! He couldn't even think the word in relation to Anne.

"A year." Anne glared at him. "A Presbyterian pastor and his wife found me before I went too far, but I'd seen enough, done enough, and was addicted to enough." She swallowed again, her jaw working as she tried to speak coherently. "So, you see? You never lost everything. At least you had your _house_! So don't sit there, self-righteous and arrogant, and tell me I had another option! You think you lost it all? You think you lost respect? How do you think _I_ feel? No matter what I do, there are still places in New York City where I can't go because of what happened! And, every now and then, I'll see one of those men with their wives and children, going about their business or to church or a restaurant, and I realize that I was _nothing_ to them! Just a way to get a few moments of pleasure that their wives wouldn't even supply."

"Anne, I'm so. . . ."

"Don't apologize to me because I don't need your pity, Charles!" Her voice rose in direct proportion to how her tears flowed. "You sit in that chair all day, feeling sorry for yourself and for the fact that you can't walk. When I _fought_ to find a way to pull myself up from the streets. I _hate_ what I was, and I do _everything_ in my power to stay away from that life! So, if you want to kick me out of your house for what I used to be, then fine! But do us all a favor and stop being so self-absorbed! Because you have a lot to offer people like me! You're just too selfish to care!"

She stormed out of the house and into the dark garden, leaving Charles in the kitchen with the ticking of the clock and the sound of crickets in the garden. He fought the stone on his chest, just trying to bring in a good, solid breath. How did he cope with this? He'd had his fun in university, spending the night with available women and using his abilities to make certain they enjoyed themselves. But, when everything came crashing down, he did have a roof over his head. And he never had to beg for anything. Instead, he slowly slid into addiction, spending more money than he should have on drugs while a woman he had professed to care about as a friend had sold her body just to eat.

 _No wonder she can't accept this as her home._ The random thought floated through Charles's head as he turned his wheelchair around and started for the dining room. Every time she walked into the house, she had seen those places she had turned to, hoping for a bit of safety while she either slept or carried out her business.

Thinking of that business turned his stomach, and Charles thought he might need to rush to the restroom. But his supper stayed where it should while his heart sank. He felt pressure behind his eyes that was both familiar and foreign. Rather than hurrying to the bathroom, he rolled as quickly as he could into his own bedroom before slamming the door.

The first of the tears fell as he found something to throw. The glass on the photo shattered against the wall as his shout echoed around the room. And, for the first time in a long time, Charles Xavier hung his head and wept.

He didn't cry for himself or his circumstances. Instead, he cried for a woman he had professed to care about, for the loss of her innocence, and for the shame he felt. She had managed to pull herself from a life on the streets, to build a life that wasn't dependent on anyone, and to face those demons every day by trying to help addicts who had surrounded her. While he, rich and entitled and selfish, had crawled into a bottle and tried to drown his problems in alcohol.

Suddenly, he was able to truly see himself. And he didn't like what he saw.

~TBC


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Several of you mentioned that you weren't expecting that particular revelation. Neither was I, if I was to be honest. Anne just sort of told me, and it was one reason I chose not to publish until the main writing of the story was complete. That way, I could lay in a few clues as the initial chapters progressed.

There will be a few more chapters like these ones as the past is faced, and I want you to be aware. I'll post warnings before each chapter like the last one.

As always, thank you for all of your reviews. And I hope you enjoy! ~lg

~oOo~

Neither Alex nor Hank had meant to listen to the argument between Charles and Anne. But the kitchen was right off the dining room, and their voices, while muted by the closed door, had carried. Alex stared in amazement as Anne proceeded to tear every one of their perceptions of her to shreds. He walked away when she came down on Charles for everything he did have.

He often looked at women like Anne and saw only what they portrayed. They looked for lonely men, taking advantage of them and using their bodies to get what they wanted. For that matter, _he_ had been tempted a few times. But he had never really thought to peel back the surface and examine _why_ they walked the streets. How many of them worked their corners just so they could survive? How many saw it as the only way to keep from dying?

How had Anne coped with the secret for so long? Her snappish comment had been forgotten as Alex wandered down to Hank's lab and sank into one of the benches. Hank followed a short time later, his face red. He blinked a few times and then sighed. "Wow."

Alex nodded. "I had no idea."

The two men stared at nothing for a time, and then Hank returned to whatever kept him busy. But Alex was caught by what Anne had revealed. She was easily ten years his senior, and he saw her as Charles's lady, no matter what either of them said. Because of how Charles respected and cared for her, he gave her the same deference and had come to like her. But this. . . .Learning just how desperate she'd been when she returned to the States had left him reminded of his time in Vietnam.

He'd finally learned control in Vietnam. Of course, he had a unit depending on him, one that didn't need him to kill them because he couldn't control his mutation. But he'd also seen and done his fair share of things that shamed him. Never so much as some of his fellow soldiers, but war had a way of hardening a man. And of breaking him.

Alex clearly remembered the day, after Raven sent him back to the States, that he finally faced everything that had happened. He'd gotten drunk, so plastered he couldn't walk a straight line. And he'd managed to start a fight with anyone, ending up spending a night in jail. The sheriff of the town had seen the uniform he'd worn and took pity on him, releasing him without charging him for the damages. And Alex had taken the opportunity. He came home.

Anne never had the opportunity to go home. She was still cut open because of what her parents had done. Alex was not as skilled at interpreting the emotional state of people as Charles, but even he recognized that the lack of acceptance from her family had scarred her mind. He had no idea who this Franklin was, but the way Anne talked about him left Alex wanting to find the guy and pound him into the pavement.

Three hours later, Charles wheeled into the lab. The older man looked drained, his face pale and his eyes red. Alex frowned until he realized that the bloodshot eyes weren't from alcohol. No, these were from pure emotion. When he spoke, his voice was so broken and rough that Alex winced. "Have either of you seen Anne?"

The question stilled Alex. "She didn't come back inside?"

Charles shook his head. "I also checked her room. As far as I can tell, she's not there. But, if she's wearing that necklace. . . ."

Alex stood and passed Charles, putting a hand on the other man's shoulder. "I'll find her."

Hank stripped off his lab coat, leaving his experiment. "I'll help."

Alex nodded. "I'll check the garden. Hank, get ready to hunt the property if I don't find her. Charles, stay inside and wait for my signal." His words were clipped, the orders of a man accustomed to operating within the confines of a unit. Beast would be able to cover more ground, and Charles would know where both of them were at any moment and inform the other when Anne was found.

Charles followed them upstairs, completely unashamed for how emotional he sounded when he spoke. "I am sorry," he said softly while they rode the elevator to the first floor. "I should have seen this coming."

Alex shook his head. "Take it from someone who knows. These sorts of things stay beneath the surface until the right button is pushed. Don't blame yourself." He didn't need to be a telepath to know that Charles took no comfort in that.

Rather than waiting for his friends, Alex pushed out of the elevator as soon as the door opened, moving through the kitchen with dishes still scattered and out the door. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness of the night and then set out on the pathway around the house. "Anne?"

The gardens were a maze! Alex wandered the paths for a few long moments, finding more places where a hurting woman could hide in five minutes than he had in all the time he'd walked through them. He knew that Charles had also followed him outside, a flashlight in hand while he used the paved paths to look for Anne. With the upper terrace covered, Alex slipped off of the paving stones and to the second terrace.

He found her there, tucked away where the light of the kitchen just barely highlighted the white shirt she wore. She had curled in on herself, her knees drawn up to her chest while she kept her face buried in them. Alex sighed deeply and hoped Charles was listening. _I found her._

 _How is she?_ The question confirmed what he'd suspected.

 _Not sure._ Alex walked toward Anne, careful to pay attention to how she reacted to his presence. When she didn't show any response, he sat down next to her, bracing his elbows on his knees while he waited. He felt rather than heard Charles moving into earshot and couldn't bring himself to tell the telepath to go away. Charles felt responsible for this entire thing, and he had a vested interest in making certain Anne would stick around. Alex did, too. She was good for all of them, but especially for Charles. And, while he would never say so verbally, he knew that he'd take Charles to the ground if he ever did to Anne what he'd done to Moira. The wheelchair wouldn't even begin to enter into his thoughts.

Anne finally sighed and dropped her feet to the ground. She braced her hands on the stone bench, her head still down. "Sorry. I just needed time." Her voice was just as rough as Charles's had been, and she sniffled and used the back of a hand to wipe away her tears. She shook her head. "It shouldn't be so. . . ."

"Intense?" Alex looked up at the stars. "Look, I'm not going to ask questions. If you want to talk, I'm here. But you should know that you've got an entire house full of men who are concerned for you."

Anne laughed as she also looked up at the sky, the sound sarcastic and bitter. "Yeah, I bet I do."

Alex gave her a sharp look at the insinuation. "That's not who you are anymore. So don't go there."

She blinked at him. "You heard."

"Kind of hard not to." He shrugged. "The kitchen's pretty close to the dining room."

"I shouldn't have gone off on Charles like that."

"He had it coming." Alex rolled his eyes when he heard Charles's voice in his head thanking him for the vote of confidence. "No matter what any of us should or shouldn't have done, no one here is going to judge. Not anymore. So, if you want to talk, I'll listen. If you don't, I'll listen to that, too."

Anne let out another tired laugh, but she didn't say anything else. Instead, she leaned against him, propping her head on his shoulder and taking comfort in another human being. Alex didn't move, unconcerned with how it might look. He just knew that Anne wouldn't welcome a hug right then, and he suspected Charles might get a bit more upset than he already was. The last thing Alex needed was jealousy on top of the guilt and drama.

 _No jealousy here._ Charles's voice echoed in his head. _I'm not threatened by you._

Alex shook his head. _Good. Because Rachel would be if she saw me holding another woman._ He deliberately brought his latest memory of his girlfriend to mind—an image of her smiling at him while in bed—and knew Charles would withdraw. While he was no prude, Charles Xavier held to his own set of morals. He knew that Alex was a man on his own and involved with a woman in town. But he didn't like seeing anything detailing what went on behind closed doors. By projecting the rather intimate image, Alex had ensured that he and Anne would have a bit of privacy.

A moment later, he heard the faint sounds of a wheelchair leaving the area. _Just make sure she'll be okay._

Alex wanted to give Charles the finger but chose to ignore him. Of course he would make sure Anne was okay!

Anne sighed about ten minutes later, lifting her head off of his shoulder. "I should go back inside."

"You don't need to."

"I'm falling asleep here." She stretched carefully, pushing off of the bench. "I'll be okay, Alex. I always am."

"I know you will be." Alex stood with her. "But we can always use a shoulder to cry on sometimes."

Anne nodded, and he did something he had not done yet. He pulled her into a hug, letting her lay her head on his shoulder and take a bit of comfort. She returned the hug, not at all embarrassed when she pulled back. "Thanks. I needed that."

"Hugs are free. Any time of the day." Alex deliberately chose to lighten the tone. "Kisses, though, might cost a bit more."

Anne let out a genuine laugh at that. "Yeah, another bruise on the face, this time from Rachel and not a wheelchair handle."

"Speaking of, what _did_ you do to that chair?" Alex followed the silly conversation, letting it break the tension as he led her inside. "I've never seen Charles's wheelchair so violent!"

Anne laughed again, on the border of hysterical giggles. "I have no idea, but it was pretty blunt in its delivery."

Alex snickered at the pun, no matter how bad it had been. "Maybe it wasn't upset." He grinned. "Maybe it likes you as much as the rest of us and was just trying to say hello."

"That was some hello, then." Anne blinked as they walked into the kitchen. The dishes from the dining room had been rinsed and stacked, waiting for someone to wash them properly. And the leftovers had been put away. "By the way, Alex, I'm sorry I yelled at you for a simple question."

"Hey." Alex grabbed her shoulders. "No more apologies. Just. . . .Next time this happens, let us know that it's a rough time of the month or that you're dealing with some old demons. Whatever. That way we know you're not really mad at us."

Anne nodded. "I'll try."

"You know Charles will want to talk with you." Alex shrugged. "He's good with stuff like this. He can take it."

"Yeah." Anne flushed at that and smiled. "I'll try to listen."

"That's all we can ask." Alex watched as she headed up to her rooms and then went back to the kitchen. He was tired, a long day at work behind him, but he didn't want Anne to deal with the dishes when she first woke the next day. The last thing she needed was a reminder of how badly the evening had gone.

Charles returned to the kitchen before he got the first sink of water filled. "She's resting," he said softly, his British accent rather thick at the moment. "Thank you, Alex. For doing what I could not."

Alex kept his eyes on the soap bubbles in the sink. "She accepted a hug from me." He glanced over his shoulder. "But she needs you." He slapped off the water when Charles opened his mouth to protest. "That woman up there puts a lot of stock in what you think, whether you want to believe it or not. I don't care how you two work it out, but she needs you to accept her for who she is. That's the only way she's going to see her own worth."

Charles nodded at that. "She's always been accepted, Alex."

Alex rolled his eyes. "Then do all of us a favor and help her see that."

The two men were quiet for the rest of the evening. Alex washed the dishes, and Charles dried and put them away. By the time Alex wandered up to his bedroom, he was completely worn out. He fell into bed and stared at the ceiling, wishing he knew what to do next. Instead, he decided to just let Anne have her space. When the time was right, she'd find him or Charles and work out her issues. Until then, he resolved to just be her friend.

~oOo~

The sun was already well above the horizon by the time Anne woke the next morning. She had fallen into bed as soon as she'd been able to shed her shoes and slept soundly, the emotion of the last few days finally catching up to her. Now, she blinked at her clock. It was at least three hours later than she typically woke, and her stomach rumbled. It reminded her that she had eaten very little the previous evening.

Rolling over, she stared at the ceiling. She hadn't meant for everything to come bubbling out last night. But Charles's self-righteousness in calling her on her emotions when he refused to give up his right to sulk had actually angered her. She had just wanted him to see that things weren't as bad as he liked to think. However, she could have handled it better.

Another thirty minutes later, her stomach refused to be ignored. So, she pushed out of bed, rushed through a quick shower, and made her way downstairs. The house was quiet at ten in the morning, and she peeked into Charles's study and the library on her way to the kitchen. Both were abandoned.

The tea set rested on the table, glittering in the sunlight that still poured through the window. The newspaper had already been opened, but the funny pages had been pulled out. And a small card had been propped against the tea pot.

She smiled as she picked it up. It had been years, but she recognized Charles's handwriting. _Gone to town with Hank, and Alex is at work. Not sure how long we'll be. Take the day to yourself. You deserve it. ~X_

The signature looked like something he'd grown accustomed to using.

Anne wasn't so sure about that last line, but she refused to argue. A quick check of the tea proved that it was still fairly warm, and she prepared a cup before fixing a plate full of fruit and a bagel. Then, she carried her breakfast back upstairs and curled into the window seat in her sitting room while she ate.

Somehow, the hours melted away. She finished breakfast, brought the tea set upstairs to refill her cup as she wanted, and pulled out her knitting. For a long time, she added sparkling beads to her shawl, her mind not focused on any one thing. She was too tired to think about the day before, the weight of what she'd revealed leaving her feeling bruised emotionally. She simply needed to _be_.

Charles's arrival home pulled her out of her knitting. Anne blinked at the car as it drove around the house and into the garage. She hadn't noticed the view of the drive from her window until now, and she decided she'd been alone long enough. Setting the beads and knitting to one side, she carefully gathered the tea set and took it back to the kitchen. She was cleaning out the tea pot when Charles and Hank wandered through the door.

Hank blinked at her and seemed to struggle to find something to say. But Charles had no problems. He smiled, tucking a folder of paperwork next to his leg. "How are you, Anne?"

"Fine." She turned to face both men. "I apologize about last night."

Charles waved a hand, his expression somewhere between dismissive and frustrated. "We all need to vent a little at times. And what you said was very true. So, maybe I should be thanking you."

Anne didn't know what to say to that. So, she went back to wiping down the tea cup she'd used. Besides, Charles looked rather dashing in gray slacks, sport coat, and light blue button-down shirt. His hair had grown a bit since he cut it, the wave returning, and the afternoon sun caught the glints of red in his beard.

"Anne." Charles's tone had shifted, and she closed her eyes as she felt that same shiver go down her spine. He knew how to get her attention, and he obviously wasn't afraid to use the tactic. She turned to see him staring directly at her. His blue eyes were steady when he spoke. "I mean it. I had no idea. . . ." He glanced away, his voice choking as he swallowed harshly. "You were right to remind me of what I have not lost, and I appreciate it."

Anne looked out the window, trying to find the right words to respond. "It doesn't feel like I was right." She shook her head, not wanting to accept that he might actually be okay with who and what she'd been.

"Perhaps not." Charles's voice carried a smile with it. "But, sometimes, the things in life that are the best for us don't feel right." He shifted around, the folder of paperwork he had stuck next to his leg rustling as he did so. "When I finally decided to give up the drugs, it wasn't something that I enjoyed. It was a moment when I was _needed_. Not for my money or my house or my education, but for _me_." He paused long enough for Anne to look at him. "And, right now, _you_ are needed. Not because of what you have or your skills. But because of who you are and what you lived through. Because you understand what it's like to pull yourself out of the pit and build a new life."

Anne stared at him, absolutely unashamed for once. "I'm not all that special, Charles. Plenty of girls out there have been where I was."

He nodded. "But not all of them are willing to devote their time and energy to a cripple who sometimes needs a good, firm slap on the head."

She recognized the escape he'd given her. "Maybe I'm a little too good at that."

"No such thing." Charles backed his chair away from her, turning toward the door. "Especially when it comes to me. I'm too stubborn for my own good."

He left the kitchen then, retreating to his study to work on whatever that paperwork contained. She caught bits and pieces of a phone call about the garden renovation when she returned to her room for the afternoon.

That evening, she wandered into the library and found Charles reading next to the fireplace. He welcomed her with a smile but said nothing as she curled into her favorite couch. At the moment, it was all she needed.

~oOo~

Charles kept things light while Anne sat in the library with him. He could see the toll the emotional explosion of the previous day had taken on her, and he well remembered how drained he'd been after the confrontation on the White House lawn. While Anne still didn't know about his involvement in that, she had a few things wrong about him. He had dealt with this level of emotion before, just in a different sense. And, while she had managed to find his weakness—using his wheelchair as his excuse—she still did not see him as understanding how bruised and tender her mind and heart felt at that moment.

His expression changed after she said goodnight. He turned to the darkened fireplace, the chess set and empty liquor cabinet mocking him. All he wanted was to go pour a good, stiff drink. Instead, he glared.

Anne's revelation from the previous evening had rocked all of the men in the house. Alex and Hank both wanted to hover, to make sure that Anne wouldn't run from them. They accepted what she had done with ease, likely because they both knew what rejection and judgment felt like. Hank had his feet that he'd been ridiculed for all his life, and Alex had been in prison and to war. And Charles. . . .Charles had his mutation, his failures as a brother, his decision to deny himself happiness with Moira, and the slow decline of his own mind into alcohol and apathy. Not one of them would despise Anne for doing what she had. It had been wrong, and Charles truly wanted to find a few men and teach them that taking advantage of a hurting, homeless girl was beyond despicable. But it was also in the past.

As were his problems. Charles sighed deeply and left the library and the liquor cabinet. At one point in time, his credenza had also housed more than its fair share of alcoholic beverages, but those had been the first to go after Logan's disappearance. Now, his study looked like it should: a place where business could be conducted. And, he hoped, a location where students could be taught.

Pulling out the folder he'd set in the top drawer of his desk before Anne joined him in the library, Charles took a deep breath and reached for a pen. He had found Hank that morning after lying awake all night long, and he was determined to see this through. With her emotional outburst, Anne had done what all of her logical words and careful cleaning of the house had failed to do. She had grabbed hold of the scruff of his neck and yanked him firmly back to reality. Maybe not literally, but it had been just as effective.

He had been blessed. Maybe not with a family that cared, but with financial security and a home where people like Hank, Alex, and Anne could find rest and acceptance. He'd also been favored with intelligence and an understanding of the human genome, a science that was still in its infancy but that had leaped forward in the last few years. It was time to begin putting those skills and blessings to use, helping others, and learning to live with how life truly was.

He felt Hank approaching and deliberately kept his eyes on his work. If he was needed, he would be summoned. It felt odd to do so, and he decided, yet again, that he needed to mind his own business more often.

As he expected, Hank knocked on his door. He glanced up. "Yes?"

Hank jabbed a finger over his shoulder. "Just wanted to check and see if you needed anything before I turn in."

Charles smiled. "No, Hank. I'm fine." He glanced at the paperwork in front of him. "I think I'll finish this and call it a night, as well."

Hank nodded but hesitated. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Do what?" Charles frowned. "Teach?"

"At a community college." Hank shrugged. "You and I both know it's not Harvard or Oxford."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Or Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters?" When Hank's expression became a tad uncomfortable, Charles smiled. "I decided sometime during the night to work toward that, Hank. The school will re-open one day. But I'm not ready for that, and, frankly, I don't know how Anne would handle it. So, this is the first step. Take a teaching position, do something with my life, and see where it leads." He shrugged. "What else can I do, Hank? Sit here all day and drive all of you insane with my inability to move past Cuba? I need to do something positive, to affect lives the way I know I can. And teaching at a small university, no matter how different from my previous aspirations of running a school, is the first step."

Hank sighed and nodded again. "You mentioned an assistant."

Charles's smile widened. When he'd left the house that morning, he'd been uncertain if anyone would hire him, let alone the local community college. But they'd been so desperate for teachers after the war in Vietnam that they'd hired him with one glance at his qualifications. Colleges like this rarely drew in Oxford graduates, and having someone with his pedigree looked very good for them. Charles had four weeks before classes began, and he had managed to get the dean of the college to allow him to bring his own assistant. "I plan to ask Anne. It would get her out of this house, in contact with others she can help, and it was her idea in the first place."

Hank grinned. "Good. Because, as much as I want to help. . . ."

Charles held up a hand. "I understand," he said softly. "And I appreciate that you would be willing if I did ask."

Hank met his eyes. "Goodnight, Charles." He turned and left the room.

"Oh, Hank?" Charles waited while his friend backed into the room. "One other thing. The next time Anne leaves the house, would you mind cleaning the chandeliers?"

Hank grinned, and Charles got a mental image of himself—upside down—telling Hank to "get off the bloody chandelier." It was a much better memory than the one Alex had shown him the previous evening. "I'll take care of it."

"Good." Charles went back to his paperwork, thinking over everything that needed to happen in the coming weeks. He needed to create a syllabus, go through the textbook he had, and ensure that every student enrolled in his class would have access to one. But the thought of teaching "Introduction to Genetics" actually created a slight bit of anticipation.

All at once, he could not wait to see the look on Anne's face when he told her what he'd done. He just hoped she saw it as proof that what he'd said was true. That she had made a difference in his life. And that he wanted her involvement in his future.

~TBC


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** Once again, thank you to all my reviewers, particularly those who are guests and can't get a direct response. I appreciate every single one of them.

Also, this chapter continues to deal with the more adult themes that the last two have, so be prepared.

As always, enjoy! ~lg

~oOo~

It took three days for Anne to feel like herself again. In those three days, she rose at her normal time, cleaned whatever room was next on her list, and cooked breakfast and dinner. But she stayed very quiet, not chatting with Charles in the evening and certainly not going down to Hank's lab. After all, the last time she'd been down there, it had led to her little melt down. Granted, it wasn't as bad as Charles's melt down, but it was enough.

To make matters worse, the men seemed to walk on eggshells around her. Anne hated that she'd caused such discomfort and breathed a sigh of relief when supper ended every night. Out of the three, Charles seemed the most comfortable with her and rarely pushed her to share what went through her head. Anne wished he would. Part of her felt bruised, like the wrong word would send her flying back into hysterics. But another part of her just wanted to get all of this pressure out so her emotions and life could return to normal.

Finally, Anne could stand it no longer. She joined Charles in the library after supper as was their habit, something that neither Hank nor Alex seemed intent on interrupting. And she sat across from him, knitting. She knew he watched her. His fascination with her handwork still made her smile, but her mind was too occupied for that tonight. After nearly thirty minutes, she sighed. "Penny for them?"

"I'm sorry?" Charles blinked.

"Your thoughts."

"I'm staring again, aren't I?" For once, he seemed uncomfortable, looking back to the book he held.

"Yes, but I honestly don't mind." Anne set aside her work and met his eyes. "I have a question, though." When he nodded that it would be okay to ask, she forced herself to speak. "Why haven't you asked me about what I told you the other night?"

"Should I?" Charles closed the book he'd been truly studying until his thoughts took over. "Anne, I'm happy to listen. But I will not pry until you're ready to share."

"Go ahead and ask, Charles." Anne reached for her knitting just for something to do, hearing the exhaustion in her voice. "I won't mind."

He stayed silent for a long moment, and she wondered if he would do as she told him. He had his own secrets and nightmares, and she understood his reticence to delve too deeply into those events. Then, he sighed. "What was it like?" Then, he actually flushed. "Not the. . .work. I meant the streets."

"You can call it for what it was." Anne glanced up and met his eyes. "I know what I was. And who I am."

"What you _were_ ," he said, emphasizing the past tense verb. "Not who you _are_."

For the first time in years, she actually believed him. It wasn't a simple acknowledgment that her work on the streets was over. There was something in the way he looked at her. He didn't evaluate her for her body or what she might offer him, though that had certainly crossed his mind by now. He was male, after all. But he seemed to see more than just what she had been, more than her body, and more than what she did around the house. He saw _her_. And it made her want to cry. "I was invisible," she said softly. "For those few months until that first man, I didn't exist. It didn't matter what my name was or how professionally I spoke. I didn't have a home, and so I. . . ."

"Wasn't worth anyone's time?" Charles asked the question softly, as if afraid of shattering her.

She lifted her chin. "That's part of why I let things happen and didn't fight when he offered me money. First of all, I was hungry, and what he gave me kept me eating for three days. But I just. . . .I wanted. . . ." She blinked, surprised at the tears that welled up when she recalled those days.

Charles leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, his blue eyes focused completely on her. "You just wanted to be desired."

Anne nodded.

Charles smiled ever so slightly. "Anne, that's a basic human desire. Every one of us, no matter how wealthy or how poor, has a need to be desired. Whether it's sexually or otherwise, every single person on this world loses their hope and their way if they're not wanted."

A tear slipped down her cheek. "But I could have gone to a shelter, asked for help at a church, something other than what I did."

"At the time, did you know about such things?" He waited while she shook her head. "You were young, newly escaped from an abusive relationship, and on your own. Up until then, you'd been provided for, and you had every need met. You had no concept of life on the streets, of how to survive without money or influence. So, you found a way to get what you needed. And, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, you got yourself to shelter and off the streets."

Anne swiped at her face, hating herself for crying about this _again_. "I've just spent so many years hiding who and what I am that. . . ."

"What you _were_ ," Charles interrupted, correcting her yet again.

She took a deep breath and stared directly at him. "I spent so long hiding what happened that I don't know if I can handle having it known. You're one thing. You have your history and struggles. But I don't know if I can handle how the others look at me."

Charles actually laughed at that, not a full belly laugh, but a low chuckle deep in his chest. "I'll have you know that Hank and Alex are hovering. Alex has even neglected his girlfriend for the last several days to make certain Hank and I don't upset you. And Hank is never far from where you are in case you need something. He's not very good with personal interaction, but he cares."

Anne stared at him, shocked. She had never suspected either of the younger men in the house would do such a thing. "I didn't know."

"They don't want you to know." He smiled slightly, just enough to make her feel like he truly cared. "My point is, you're a part of this family, as strange as it may be. You fill a different role for each of us, one that we all need in our lives right now. You accept Alex as he is, knowing that he's been fighting a war that most people believe we should never have been in. And you help Hank feel like he has a home and friends. I won't go into everything you do for me because, frankly, I'm not ready to talk about it.

"You have a place here. We all, even myself, have things in our past that we're ashamed of doing. Some of us more than others. But we are working to push past all of that and build a new life." He shrugged, his smile still in place. "Perhaps you might join us?"

Anne couldn't help but return the smile, her tears too close for comfort. She hated how easily he made her cry, but this felt different. It wasn't angry or hurt or any of those negative emotions. Somehow, with his quiet words, Charles had managed to bring her to the point of letting go.

Turning away from his piercing gaze, Anne tried to get her emotions under control. She blinked several times, wishing she could just curl up somewhere and sob. The pressure that had built for days had been slightly relieved by her blow-up in the kitchen. But it had returned, and she felt like she would explode if something didn't change.

All of a sudden, she realized just how difficult a task Charles faced. She wanted him to let go of his past, to accept his life in a wheelchair, and to be the man that he could be. But she had spent ten years of her life trying to escape the woman she'd been and never acknowledging that that girl was a part of her.

"Anne." Charles's voice, so close to her ear, startled her. She blinked at him, more tears falling, as she watched him transfer from his wheelchair to the couch next to her. He slid one arm across her shoulders and pulled her to him, the position awkward but not unwelcome. "Come here."

Anne didn't fight it. She let him tuck her head under his chin, and the pressure in her chest finally burst. The tears she'd spent years holding back started flowing, carrying all the pain and hurt with them. She knew she was making a mess of Charles's shirt, and most other times, would have been embarrassed. But this was the first time he'd ever touched her beyond a hand on her arm or to examine her bruised jaw. It wasn't demanding in any way and was exactly what she needed. What she _wanted_. And she was so grateful to have it.

~oOo~

Charles closed his eyes as Anne's tears began to flow in earnest. He'd just found another weakness in Hank's design. With her head tucked beneath his chin, he had somehow managed to slip into the shield that her necklace created. Not only did he feel the overwhelming sense of despair and pain flowing from her, but he could hear every thought. He closed his eyes, trying to shore up the battered walls of his fortress, but his own emotions were still too raw. Some of it got through.

She wanted to be there, in his arms, at that moment. That thought spoke loudly to Charles and made his pulse skip a beat. No matter what he had or had not done, she wanted his company. But she wasn't ready for more, and he was grateful when she could acknowledge that in herself. This moment wasn't about whatever attraction flowed between them. Anne needed this time to finally release the shame and pain that she'd held for so long, and the simple act of hugging her without demanding anything else provided that release.

Closing his eyes, Charles felt a few of his own tears slip out. He had never apologized to anyone for crying, particularly not during a moment of true emotion. The day he accessed Erik's mind and pulled the memory of his mother to mind, Charles had cried for two reasons. First, he felt Erik's absolute relief at being able to recall his mother's face. Secondly, he'd wished he had a similar memory. Charles's own childhood had been so devoid of familial love that he would never have known about it without the memories of others to define it for him.

On the beach just after being shot, he'd cried as well. In that moment, he had realized that he and Erik were never going to be the brothers they had once been. And he had let Raven go. Part of his emotion was the sheer terror of realizing that he couldn't feel his legs, and part of it was the strain of holding back that much agony.

He had cried so many times since then, usually in a fit of rage or grief. But this. . . .He wished he could explain it. But it felt almost as if, by helping Anne accept what she had once done and release it, he could release everything as well. He didn't sob the way she did, but he held her closer while his own tears flowed.

Anne didn't pull away when her tears stopped. Charles knew when they had, primarily because he could read every thought in her mind. He forced himself to stay in place, relaxed on the couch with his arm around her shoulders while her head shifted to a more comfortable position. This felt right. Rather than pulling away—because that would have meant he needed to get back in his hated chair—he found the handkerchief he'd tucked into his pocket out of habit and pressed it into her hand. She used it to wipe her face before bunching the fabric into her fist.

"Sorry." When she spoke, her voice was exhausted.

"Why?" Charles kept his voice soft, partially because he knew that Alex was roaming the house and didn't want him to overhear their conversation and partially because Anne loved that tone.

She rewarded him with a slight thrill in her emotions. "That I destroyed your shirt."

"Thank you for not apologizing for being human." He felt her laugh and knew the moment had ended. Tilting his head so that he could look her in the eye, he watched as she realized that his own face was tear-stained and probably looked as splotchy as hers did. "You don't have to be strong all the time."

"I know." She sat upright at that moment, pulling away from him, and the shield around her thoughts descended once again. Charles let his arm over her shoulders slip away, and she twisted his handkerchief in her hands. "I thought I came here to help _you_."

He laughed at the rueful tone in her voice. "Well, apparently people who need help—whether they admit it or not—come here." He thought about everything that Logan had told him, of these so-called X-Men and the future that Logan faced. "I'm glad a friend from years ago has found that as well."

She smiled at him, a smile that was frayed around the edges and supremely tired. But her face was peaceful for the first time in days. "Thank you."

He caught her hand, holding it when she moved to put her knitting away. "You're welcome, Anne. More than you know."

She gave him another awkward smile and then left, her fingers trailing out of his hand as she stood. She didn't look back at him when she slipped out of the library, and Charles let out a deep sigh. He had intended to ask her to act as his assistant when he began teaching in four weeks. He had not intended to turn this into a crying jag, though he could honestly say he felt better.

Being privy to Anne's thoughts while she released years of pent-up emotions had done something to him. He'd been in her mind before, and she had always displayed the ability to keep things hidden. This time, she had had no defense. Her emotions and the strain of keeping it all behind a mask had worn away at her defenses, giving him a full dose of just how much of a fool he'd been.

Touching his fingers to his forehead, he smiled. _You can stop hovering. She's fine._

Alex appeared in the library door a moment later. "You sure?"

Charles rolled his eyes. "Go see Rachel. I'm sure she'd enjoy your company. Oh, and Alex?" He held up a hand, ignoring the wet shoulder of his shirt and pinning his young friend in place. "I don't want to know _anything_!"

Alex smirked. "Then stay out of my head." With that, he sauntered off, and Charles slammed his mental fortress back in place. He really had no desire to see or feel just what Alex and Rachel would do that evening. Not when he had his own thinking to get done.

He cared for Anne. In the past, he had admitted to loving her, but it was the love shared between friends and family. Just as he loved Hank and Alex as brothers, he had always saved a special part of his heart for Anne. But this was different. There was a thrill to how he felt tonight, a silly smile that wanted to come to his face as he remembered the way she had reacted to his voice right under her ear, and an excitement he had not experienced in a long time. _Not since Moira._

Thinking of Moira brought his thoughts around to those few days they spent together in 1962. She had taken him by storm, showing up in that pub when he'd been more drunk than sober. Her thoughts had managed to sober him up rather quickly, though, and the rest of their time had been overshadowed by the Missile Crisis and his recovery. But Charles still remembered how much he loved having her around and how he had forced himself to watch calmly when, under his telepathic suggestion, she drove away with no memory of him.

Now, he had Anne in his life. Hiring her had been the best thing he could have done. Not only had she done what he'd hoped by helping him recover from years of apathy and pain, but he had rediscovered a good friend. Still, he wondered if, had he foreseen this latest development, he would have gone a different direction. Would he have turned Anne away if he had realized then that he would find himself falling head over heels with no desire to stop it?

What about his abilities? Hank's and Alex's and every other student's he would eventually have in this place? Alex had already made his opinion pretty clear. He planned to do physical harm if Charles so much as thought about removing this memory from Anne's mind. And, after what he'd seen in her thoughts that evening, he doubted he would even have the strength. When she'd cried, he'd seen the nights she'd spent on cold, hard pavement, had experienced the gut-twisting shame after her first encounter with a customer, had almost cried with relief when she had enough money to buy food, and had felt himself nearly vomit when she remembered going back to the same customer when she needed more money. But, in all of those dark times, Anne had never lost one thing: she _hoped_. Even when she tried the drugs that her customers paid her to take with them or compromised her own morals because it made more money for a roof over her head, she never let herself think that she would always be. . . .He couldn't even think the word, particularly not in relation to Anne.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Charles transferred back to his wheelchair and headed for his rooms. His stomach churned again, but not in anger or hurt. He was simply overwhelmed.

He had just closed his door when he felt them. Anne had obviously removed her necklace and, based on her thoughts, had slipped into a hot bath to soak away the strain of the day. Charles deliberately did not allow himself to follow her thinking, choosing to run his shower on the cool side. He spent the time the water pounded on his shoulders shoring up the fortress in his mind, thickening the walls and daubing the cracks.

Tomorrow, he would speak with Anne, ask her to help him in his teaching, and allow her to be embarrassed. And he would wait to see what developed between them. But he would not push her. And, if the time ever came that she fully trusted him again, he would tell her of his abilities and face whatever reaction she gave him. Because he cared, and he refused to walk away from her again.

~oOo~

Anne slept better that night than she had in a week. She woke at her normal time, her mind peaceful and a smile on her face. Last night, she'd tried to hold on to how it felt to be held by Charles Xavier and how he'd managed to provide the one thing that she'd missed for so long. She could not deny that her thoughts toward him were romantic, but last night's crying jag hadn't been based on that. He had simply given her a safe place to release a few years of regrets.

They would always be with her. Anne knew this and acknowledged that as she finished dressing and headed downstairs. But, for the first time in a very long time, she felt like she could talk about those times without an overwhelming sense of shame. Whether Charles had somehow taken that from her or the release of crying over them had done it, she didn't care.

She had just finished making tea when Charles appeared. He looked her over, obviously searching for signs of a sleepless night. And his eyes lingered on the necklace she still wore—and would likely wear for a very long time. The smile on his face was somewhere between friendly and seductive, and Anne forced herself to focus on preparing breakfast.

Charles reached for the paper as she did so. "Alex won't be here this morning." He sent a rueful grin her way. "He spent the night at Rachel's."

Anne's face flamed at that. She had been doing her best to _not_ stare at Charles, and then he calmly announced that Alex had gone off on a romantic interlude with the waitress from the cafe. "Thank you," she said sarcastically. "Now I don't know if I'll be able to face Rachel when I go have lunch. Not knowing that!"

"I'm sorry?" Charles looked absolutely confused.

"I have to buy groceries today, and I had planned to stop and eat at the cafe."

Realization dawned on his face. "And Rachel works at the cafe." He chuckled. "Some days, I surprise myself at how insensitive I can be."

Anne scoffed at his comment. "You're sensitive enough." She had not missed the tears on his face last night. "And I'm the last person to judge. But I didn't _want_ to know that about Alex!"

Charles laughed at that, and they settled for a quiet breakfast. Hank joined them about halfway through, and he put in his requests for the grocery trip. Charles even added a few things, admitting that he had enjoyed Anne's lasagna. And she smiled. He had called them all a family last night, and it felt that way this morning. Hank and Alex were the brothers she'd never had, but she could not define Charles. He didn't slot nicely into the role of brother, but he wasn't just a friend either. Nor did she want him to be. Using the analogy of a family, she wanted so much more.

Pulling herself from her thoughts, she took a few moments to write down a lengthy list of needs from the grocery store. She added her own needs as well, knowing that Hank typically took care of the men's personal items. Charles excused himself when the grounds foreman asked for his opinion on the garden paving project, and Hank carried a final cup of tea to his basement lab. The end of their breakfast felt so normal, but Anne saw the joy in it. For the first time, Charles had something to occupy his time, and she wasn't worried about leaving him alone.

In town, she parked next to the cafe and glanced across the street. She had more than enough yarn, but the urge to do a bit of shopping for her hobby was overwhelming. So, before going to the cafe, she wandered across the street and ended up buying two skeins of brightly colored yarn. Then, after tucking them in the car, she made up her mind to enjoy lunch.

Rachel met her inside. "Anne! It's good to see you!"

The joyful greeting made her smile. "Thank you, Rachel." She followed the younger woman as Rachel led her to her usual table.

The waitress looked a little uncertain. "May I join you?"

Anne blinked, surprised. "Of course."

Rachel held up a finger, returned to the counter, and then came back with two cups of coffee. She shrugged. "It's my lunch break," she said by way of explanation. "And I put in an order for your usual."

"Thank you." Anne suddenly realized how Charles must have felt the night before, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Rachel sighed. "I just wanted to ask how you were doing. Alex said you'd taken a fall at the house, and. . . ."

Anne laughed at that. "I did. Charles—Mr. Xavier got stuck in a mud puddle, and his wheelchair took exception to the fact that I tried to push it out of said puddle." She rubbed her left jaw, where the bruise had finally faded enough that she could cover it with makeup.

Rachel grinned. "You can call him by his name." Her tone said she knew more than most. "Besides, Alex told me about you two. That you'd known each other in college and were friends from years ago."

"Did he?" Anne leaned forward, studying the younger woman.

Rachel nodded. "I wanted to ask you how you feel about Mr. Xavier's decision." She toyed with her coffee cup. "I mean, it's his life and if he wants to teach, that's fine. But, after everything that happened in January and the whole 'mutant saving the President' thing, I wondered how you felt about the class he's teaching."

Anne stared. _Charles is teaching a class?_ "Uh. . . ."

Rachel's face fell. "You didn't know."

"No." Anne glanced to the side. She hadn't exactly given Charles a chance to tell her, either. "Which class is he teaching?"

"Introduction to Genetics." Rachel bit her lip and then admitted, "I signed up this morning. There's been so much talk about mutants and genetics in recent months, and I kind of want to understand more. And, since you and Alex are such good friends with Mr. Xavier, I figured it wouldn't hurt to take the class."

"No, it wouldn't." Anne reached across the table. "Rachel, I trust you. And I have no claim on Charles's time or friendships."

Rachel sighed deeply. "Good. Because I didn't want you to think. . . .I mean, Alex and I are happy, and he knows I'm taking the class. But it would be weird with you coming in here and me in the class, especially if. . . ."

Anne stopped her by squeezing her hand. "Rachel, there's no need to worry." She rolled her eyes. "Not about me. As I've said before, Charles and I are friends. Nothing more."

The other woman nodded, and their conversation drifted to other things. Rachel admitted that she knew she and Alex wouldn't last, and she was content with what she had. She wanted more, but Alex didn't seem intent on settling down with any one girl. However, Anne's mind kept going back to what Rachel had asked of her.

Charles was teaching a class. Part of her wanted to jump up and dance a jig. After all, he had taken her suggestions to heart. But another part of her hoped he hadn't done so just because of her recent melt down.

That evening, after a relaxed dinner filled with plenty of conversation, Anne stayed in place while Alex and Hank insisted on clearing the table. That it was a daily occurrence didn't matter, and she wanted to ask Charles a few questions. He obviously caught on to her desires, as well, because he thanked Alex for taking his plate but didn't move to help.

As soon as the other two were in the kitchen, Anne met his eyes. "I saw Rachel today. She wanted to make sure I was okay with her signing up for your class."

Charles stopped fiddling with the spoon on his saucer. "I meant to tell you last night, Anne."

"I'm not upset." She shrugged. "I just want to make sure you're doing this because you _want_ to do this."

He lifted his chin. "I am. This is what I spent years of my life preparing for, even if I did have a slight detour in recent years. I'm a professor, and it's time I got back to that role." He reached for her, taking her hand in his. "You pushed me in this direction, Anne, but trust me when I tell you that this was my decision. And I'm happy with it."

She smiled and nodded, hating herself for hoping that he'd keep hold of her hand for longer. His fingers were warm, and the warmth traveled up her arm and into her heart. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Speaking of the class." Charles let go of her hand, much to her dismay, and grinned. "I'm allowed to bring an assistant of my choice given that my. . .mobility is compromised. Someone to gather papers, pass out others, and just be a help in the class." He sobered slightly, his voice dropping. "I'd like for that to be you."

"Me?" Anne stared when he nodded. He could have chosen Hank, who was much more suited to the classroom. Instead, he asked her. "I. . . .Charles, I don't know the first thing about genetics."

"You don't need to." He tilted his head to one side. "You just have to know how to pass out papers. And be there if I need something."

Anne swallowed, wishing she had a cup of tea to sip. It would help with the cottony feeling in her mouth. He wanted her help to teach his class? She wasn't a geneticist or even a very good nurse. Just a woman who knew how to clean a house.

But he looked so hopeful, his expression teetering on acceptance and true happiness. She stared at him. "What changed, Charles?"

He met her eyes. "You have a way of yanking a man back into the real world, Anne. Whether he wants to be there or not."

She rolled her eyes. "I didn't yank anyone, Charles."

"Yes, you did." He grinned at her. "Grabbed me by the scruff of my neck like an errant kitten and plopped me right into reality. As much as I fought it, I needed it."

She stared at him, surprised. He was so different, having found a purpose with this new class. "Are you sure? I mean, this isn't just some way of avoiding your problems?"

"No." He sobered and eyed his tea, which had gone cold. Then, he glanced up as if sensing her doubt. "Trust me, love. I made this decision, I want to move on, and I am facing my demons. Just imagine what rolling into a class full of able-bodied young people will do. There's no better way to learn to cope with my life as it is."

Anne truly relaxed at his answer. He wasn't running away again, nor was he simply trying to appease anyone. The light in his eyes told her that he was truly excited about this class, and she found herself smiling in response. "I'd love to help, Charles."

"Good." He grinned at her. "Because my next choice was Hank, and we both know he'd want to _teach_ the class."

Anne laughed, as he'd intended for her to do. But she couldn't stop the slight bit of nervousness that settled into her stomach. She was going back to school. With Charles. And, she suspected that this time would be drastically different than the last.

~TBC


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** Apologies for not posting on Wednesday. My schedule sort of blew up this week, and Wednesday was the worst.

As always, I'm grateful to all of my reviewers. But last chapter had a couple of reviewers that posted some really great guest reviews. Thank you!

I hope you enjoy the chapter! ~lg

~oOo~

The news that Charles had taken a job created a strange sense of excitement in the house. Anne floated through the next day, her mind filled with memories of Oxford and her first days there. She deliberately did not let Franklin's memory interfere, choosing to leave him in the past. Instead, she watched how Alex took the news and decided the men could use a bit of a celebration. Particularly Charles.

So, once they'd finished eating and were about to leave the table, she blurted out her idea. "I was thinking. . . ." She trailed off when all three men turned, startled that she'd spoken.

Charles frowned. "Yes?"

Anne let out a deep breath. "Well, we sort of missed the Fourth of July." She hated to bring that up. Charles's relapse had happened just before the Fourth, and none of them had felt much like celebrating. Besides, as Charles had been raised British, he honestly didn't think about American holidays very often. "And we don't have too many more weeks before things get hectic. So, I was thinking about inviting Rachel over and having a sort of. . . party." And, now that she'd said it, it sounded absolutely ridiculous. "Not that we have to. I just thought it might be something different, and. . . ."

Charles held up a hand, his face a mixture of surprise and amusement. "Anne." When she stopped speaking, he let his smile spread across his face. "I like the idea."

Alex smirked from his place at the table. "Me, too."

Hank rolled his eyes at the insinuation.

Charles actually flushed slightly. "Not in my house, Alex." His tone held a note of warning that startled Anne. She had heard that tone before, usually when he was angry. Now, he was actually embarrassed, and she had very little trouble identifying why.

Alex, having gotten the reaction he wanted, stood and started collecting their supper dishes. "I'll cook," he announced with a very pointed glance at Anne.

Hank jumped to his feet. "I'll help," he said with a note of hesitance in his voice. Then, he shrugged. "It's time we had something go on around here."

As the two younger men vacated the dining room, Anne turned back to where Charles watched with a smile. He met her eyes. "It's a great idea, Anne. And it's long overdue." He tilted his head to one side. "But you don't have to make it about me."

She felt the blush cover her face. "I think it would be good, Charles. For all of us."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "So long as Alex and Rachel clear out before they decide to get up to anything, I'm happy." He backed away from the table. "Might I tempt you in a game of chess?"

Anne wanted to glare at him. Even though he'd been a patient teacher and usually didn't mind explaining the game to her, she still hated chess. But he'd just agreed to a very small party in his home, and she had watched him endure more than his fair share of Scrabble games recently. So, she smiled. "Let me make more tea."

He headed for the library, and Anne watched him go, her smile in place. She had hoped to begin a large, fringed shawl with the yarn she picked up the previous day, but she decided that playing chess with Charles would work. Besides, the time spent with him gave her a chance to evaluate his state of mind and a moment she could use to ask questions about his class. There were nearly four weeks left before it began, but she had begun to think that she had too many preparations. The house needed to be scrubbed top to bottom, she had knitting projects to finish, and she needed clothes. That last item on her list embarrassed her. When she'd come here, she had come as a nurse and housekeeper. She hadn't thought that her wardrobe, somewhat out of date, would matter. But being here and seeing how Charles favored a more elegant lifestyle when he was sober had changed her expectations.

She finally arrived at the library, not surprised to see that Charles had set up the chess set on a low table between two comfortable chairs. He had begun doing little things like that recently, leaving his wheelchair behind and enjoying the simple pleasure of sitting on the couch. Or, in this case, in the armchair. Anne set their tea on the end of the coffee table, right where both of them could reach, and prepared two cups while Charles studied the board.

They spent a quiet evening over the game, neither one speaking much except when Anne asked about Charles's strategy. But they shared a smile when, after the supper dishes had been washed, Alex and Hank wandered past, debating the merits of ribs, steaks, or barbecue chicken.

~oOo~

Charles could not deny the effect that hosting a party had on his household. Anne's idea had been received with gusto by Alex and Hank, and those two had several spectacular disagreements over what sort of food to serve. Never mind that it was just for the four who lived there and Alex's girlfriend. Within two days, Charles had listened to enough to know that, while they disagreed, they wanted something at the gathering that everyone could enjoy. Which was why they settled on steaks for Beast, potato salad for Alex, roasted corn for Anne, a large salad and fruit bowl for Rachel, and good tea for Charles.

The three days between Anne's suggestion and the actual party passed quickly. Charles finished and returned all of the paperwork for the community college and patiently followed Hank through the grocery store as he debated over red potatoes or russet potatoes. Once back home, he spent hours preparing a syllabus, going through his textbook, and getting lesson plans in order. Files of research he'd done in years past as well as information he gathered from the college library filled up the drawers on his desk, and he found himself enjoying the chaos. It wasn't Oxford, or even as challenging as running his own school. But it stimulated his mind, got him thinking about what he had once loved, and made him wonder just how much he'd changed.

Saturday, Charles had just finished writing out his notes for the syllabus after agonizing over every lesson when the doorbell rang. He glanced up and saw Anne walk past his study, wearing the brown flowered dress that distracted him every single time she pulled it out of the closet. Closing his notebook, he tucked it away in his desk and then followed her. He rounded the corner as Rachel entered the house, her eyes nearly bugging out of her head as she looked around. Anne stood behind her, holding a clear dish with layers of chocolate and vanilla pudding in it.

Smiling at Rachel's obvious shock, he rolled forward. "Thank you for coming."

She jumped slightly and then grinned sheepishly. "Thank you for having me, Professor."

"Now, none of that." Charles couldn't help the way his mouth wanted to form into a grin when Anne settled into a comfortable pace beside him. It felt right, as if she belonged there. "While you're here, it's 'Charles.'"

Rachel accepted that with grace, and Charles escorted her through the house and to the garden. Alex had been outside all morning, preparing the barbecue pit that Hank had purchased just for this occasion. And now that the tantalizing scent of charcoal and wood chips floated through the air, Charles admitted that this was probably one of Anne's best ideas.

The gathering proceeded smoothly from there. Alex had chosen an area of the garden relatively shaded from the late summer sun, and a light rain that morning had cooled things considerably. Anne helped Hank carry all of the prepared food from the kitchen, and Charles made certain that Alex didn't overcook the steaks.

But he had an ulterior motive. He had spent very little time around Rachel and wanted to know more about her. He never actually invaded her mind, but he monitored her thoughts. The girl was head-over-heels about Alex, and, based on Alex's thoughts, he returned the feelings. But the commitment between them was lacking, and Charles knew they would likely go their separate ways.

Anne was also more than a little distracting that afternoon. She and Rachel sat on a blanket under a tree, leaving the men to talk and bicker over the food. Charles did most of the watching while Hank and Alex acted like brothers. However, he still heard the two women speaking and suddenly found himself frowning.

"I'm not sure." Anne's voice was hesitant.

"Come on!" Rachel had clearly proposed something that made Anne uncomfortable. "It's just a day to go shopping, have our hair done, and spend some time away from this house. Granted, the size of this place is amazing, but. . . ." She paused and lowered her voice so that Charles couldn't hear her. But her thoughts were pretty clear. _Anne needs a makeover. Maybe Charles will notice her then._

He almost choked on his iced tea.

He had noticed Anne already. But neither of them were ready for him to admit what he felt. They had too much healing to do. Besides, he rather liked how she dressed and looked now. She had no need of a makeover to catch his eye.

But the outing would do Anne some good. Under the guise of being a friendly host, Charles joined the two women, catching the tail end of Rachel's continuing argument. He smiled. "You should go," he told Anne. "I think the three of us can manage for a day without you."

Anne gave him a playful glare. "You sure?"

"We won't burn the house down," Charles promised. Then, he glanced toward where the grill was smoking while Alex pulled steaks off of it. "Well, _I_ won't burn the house down. I can't speak to what Hank and Alex will do."

Anne laughed, as he'd intended, and he left the women making plans for a week from that day. A few moments later, Alex and Hank brought plates to the blanket under the tree, and Charles smiled in true contentment. The day passed slowly, food eaten and company enjoyed. And, by the time he retired for that evening, he was happily tired and thankful for his closest friends.

By the following evening, all sense of gratitude or peacefulness had vanished. Charles wanted to commit murder. Not in the literal sense, but he was seriously considering taking a hand ax to the device sitting in front of him. He had used typewriters before, usually with very limited and somewhat questionable results. Typing up a syllabus seemed to be beyond him.

"Problems?" Anne's voice actually startled him from his irritation. He blinked at her when she laughed. "You look utterly insane!"

"I suppose I do." He'd run his hands through his hair a few times, and it probably stood on end. "Do you know anything about these things?"

"Typewriters?" She shrugged. "I'm a nurse, Charles. I typed up patient notes all the time." She walked around the desk as if he'd invited her, never mind that she had rarely entered his study in recent days, studied what he was trying to prepare, and chuckled. "Let me."

Charles didn't know what to say when she grabbed his wheelchair, pushed him away from the desk, and positioned him right where he could face her. Then, she calmly reached for the office chair he'd shoved in the corner and plopped down, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Charles stared, his jaw hanging open. The only time Anne had pushed him around in his chair was the day he got stuck in the mud puddle. She had always been mindful of letting him get around on his own.

Some strange part of him actually liked her assertiveness.

Rather than dwelling on it, Charles moved on to the next task, ever mindful of Anne behind his desk, typing up something for his class. She asked for clarification on several terms, listening closely when he explained as much as he could. She nodded when she understood, going back to work with a focus that made him smile. Within two hours, she had managed to produce a concise syllabus from his handwritten notes, grinning when he stared in amazement.

Charles looked up at her, meeting her eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She settled on the couch he'd finally added in his study, an elegant settee with rich wood and black and gold brocade. "Charles, I don't mind helping. It's what an assistant does."

He smiled at that. "I know."

She didn't respond, instead choosing to say goodnight and leave him to his thoughts. He watched her go, her smile and obvious comfort with him more and more noticeable. As well as how she'd blossomed when she realized she could help him with his work. Was that what it would take for her to heal and see the value in herself? To be involved? Charles let his mind wander away from his class and the lessons he still needed to study as he thought about this.

Anne was coming to mean more to him than any other woman ever had, even Moira and Raven. With Raven, he'd known where he stood, and he respected her as a sibling even if they were never truly related. And, in the end, he released her because keeping her with him would have hurt worse than letting her go. Moira had been a necessity, someone who, while he loved her, would always be in danger if she remembered the mutants and his school. Anne, however, was none of those. She was simply a human woman who had been so hurt in the past that she made Charles feel the shame of his own choices. She managed to pull him out of his depression, get him focused on something he loved, and show him that he did not need to have a working body to affect lives. It also helped that she was quickly becoming more and more beautiful to him, and he found himself wondering when that had changed.

And what about Alex and Hank? For years, he'd depended on Hank to always be there, but the younger man still gave him a startled look when Charles asked for a favor. It shamed Charles to realize that, over the years, he'd _asked_ for very little and had taken Hank for granted. Hank got out of the draft by becoming Charles's primary caregiver, and Charles had used that to mean his personal servant.

And Alex. . . .Charles knew better than anyone that Alex had not yet fully returned home. He had been there in person for about a month, but a good portion of his mind was still in Vietnam. At least once a week, Charles woke from a telepathic nudge produced by a strong nightmare in Alex's mind. Usually those nights preceded a visit with Rachel, and Charles refused to condemn Alex. The younger man was trying to cope, and he had too many horrors from the war to work through for Charles to think it would be as easy as letting Alex cry.

It hadn't been as easy as that for Anne, though those few moments on the couch had changed everything in Charles's mind. They showed him just how self-absorbed he'd been, and he suddenly began realizing what Logan had been trying to tell him. He could make a difference, and it all began by getting back out in the world.

The day of Anne and Rachel's shopping trip arrived, and Charles gave Hank a pointed look over breakfast. Hank nodded, and Alex frowned. Charles figured Alex would eventually get drawn into the chore of lugging around a ladder and cleaning chandeliers and took himself off to his study to finalize his preparations for teaching.

He had managed to get distracted yet again by the latest journal out of Oxford—newly arrived with that morning's post—when he heard the tinkling of a chandelier outside his study. He glanced up and realized that Hank had begun counting in his mind. _Five, four, three, two, done!_ Then, a few clunks and bangs later, another chandelier rattled.

Shrugging it off, Charles went back to his reading. Not all of his light fixtures had crystals attached to them, but the ones that did had a huge amount. And Anne had already proven that she would clean them if Hank didn't get around to them.

Charles vaguely recognized Alex's voice outside his study, but he looked up again when he heard Beast growl. Alex laughed, another clunk, thud, and bang sounded, and then yet another chandelier began tinkling. Thoroughly distracted by Alex's thoughts—namely, the ones that still teased Hank about being a "big foot" or "bozo"—Charles backed away from his desk and wheeled into the hallway. It was quiet here, but he heard the other two men cackling at something. He rolled into the huge foyer of his home, where there were three large chandeliers and numerous small ones, and blinked.

Alex had lugged the big ladder into the house, standing at the top of it and patiently wiping the years of accumulated dust from the chain and crystals. But Hank hung upside down, his body covered in blue fur that peeked through torn seams. He also had a dust rag in hand and had bent double to carefully clean one of the larger light fixtures. He chuffed at a particularly difficult spot, and Charles wasn't sure whether he should laugh or stare. It was so reminiscent of the day that Logan first appeared that Charles found himself caught. Smile and tell Hank to get off the chandelier _again_ , or watch and make certain disaster didn't happen?

He chose to take a neutral approach, thankful that he'd reinforced the light fixtures years ago. "Hank?"

Alex turned to watch while Hank startled.

Charles buried his grin at the almost hang-dog expression. " _What_ are you doing?"

"Cleaning the chandeliers." Hank's voice, deepened by his Beast form, clearly told Charles that the question was idiotic.

Charles craned his neck to meet his friend's upside-down gaze. "I can see that. I meant with a _ladder_."

Alex grinned as he went back to his own light fixture. "Told you."

Charles glanced at him and then turned back to Hank.

For his part, Hank shrugged. "It's easier this way," he mumbled, though he seemed properly chastised.

Charles sighed. In the long run, what did it matter that Hank liked to swing from the chandeliers? As long as Anne didn't see the Beast until all the men were ready for her to know about their mutations, then he supposed it really did not matter. "Just make sure you don't leave any blue fur behind," he said as he turned back toward his study. "I won't explain that to Anne."

Hank chuffed again, and Charles, his focus on the genetics journal broken, returned to his preparations. By the time he felt he'd done everything he could, Hank and Alex had finished the light fixtures on the lower floors of the house. Charles grinned at the image stuck in his mind, particularly of Hank's expression and picked up the journal, moving to the library to enjoy the afternoon sun. He would have preferred to go outside. But the groundskeepers were finishing up in the garden that day, and Charles did not want the constant noise of their work to interrupt his reading.

Hank slipped into the library a while later, wearing fresh clothing and looking like his human self again. "Sorry. I realize I probably should have grabbed a ladder, but. . . ."

Charles held up a hand. "Did you leave any blue behind?"

Hank shook his head.

"Then you're fine." Charles set aside the journal he'd been reading and chose to take the opportunity that presented itself. "Hank, I wanted to ask you a few questions."

"Okay." Hank settled into a chair at the table that Anne used whenever she worked with her beads.

Charles took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Do you ever feel trapped here?" He saw Hank's startled expression and sighed. "What I mean is that I never truly asked you to stay after the school failed. I just. . .took it for granted that you would always be here."

Hank grinned slightly. "Where else would I go? Charles, no matter what did or didn't happen in those years, I stayed because I wanted to. Because I couldn't let you just. . . ."

"Fall apart?" Charles supplied the words. He grinned slightly. "Thank you for that, by the way. But, with starting this new class at the college, it occurs to me that you have also been as much of a recluse as I have. And if we are going to start building a school and bringing other mutants under our roof, you need a way to get out as well."

Hank's grin faded. "What would I do, Charles? I'm not a teacher. I'm a researcher. I can do that here, and I can help here."

"There's not much helping needed right now," Charles said softly. He watched his friend closely. "Hank, I've been thinking about telling Anne of my abilities."

The change in topic startled the younger man, and Hank blinked. "It's that serious between you?"

Charles thought for a moment. "It could be." He stared at the table in between them. "The other night, I was in her head. I saw everything she experienced on the streets. I _felt_ it. I felt the shame she's carried for all these years, and I know I can help her. I _want_ to help her. But I don't know if I can do that without revealing to her why I understand part of her need to hide. And, frankly, I refuse to turn my back on another friend in need."

Hank stayed quiet for a long time, mulling over everything Charles had just said. They'd always talked about the day that humanity would learn they were here and whether Hank would be accepted. But neither of them had been prepared for the showdown on the White House lawn or public acceptance of mutants in general. Many still mistrusted them and their powers, and even more were ambiguous. However, with the current administration favoring mutants, the general public seemed to accept the idea they existed. Actually facing a mutant, however, was not something the average person would think possible. Never mind that they probably passed at least one mutant every day and didn't know it.

Finally, Hank sighed. "Charles, I like Anne. I really do. And if you need to tell her about your powers, I'll support you. But. . . ."

"I would never betray your secret, my friend." Charles made certain to back that up with a direct stare and a firm tone. Hank knew that tone. Charles had used it many times in the past, most notably when all the chips were on the table and he knew he had only his word.

The younger man nodded. "I trust you," he said quietly. "Just, if you do decide to tell her, let me know. That way I can be prepared for questions."

"You'll be the first to know." Charles smiled at that. "Now, for my previous question."

"No, you haven't trapped me here." Hank shrugged. "I have a lab and an unlimited supply of equipment and experiments—whatever I want to work on—plus a roof over my head. Why would I not be happy? And, before you apologize, you haven't taken advantage of me. Been a little bossy at times, but. . . ." He grinned sheepishly.

Charles accepted that answer and coaxed Hank into a game of chess. While tea brewed and was carried to the library, Alex slipped outside, wandering the property, and Charles made a mental note to speak with the young serviceman. But, for now, he just wanted to enjoy his time with a friend. He and Hank had related in such different ways over the years, and Charles liked the friendship that had developed in the last few weeks. It was yet another effect of having Anne in the house. Somehow, she managed to pull all of them out of their mundane existence and take note of the others living under the same roof.

She arrived home shortly before supper time, and Charles caught a glimpse of her carrying a large amount of bags upstairs. Another smile came to his face, this one having nothing to do with the fact that Hank had just taken the bait he'd thrown out into their chess game. He didn't have to read Anne's mind to know that she'd finally spent some money on herself. The bags were from a mall about an hour's drive away, and he completely missed Hank's question on whether or not he was okay. Anne always looked wonderful to him, even in those moments when she'd worked until her hair lost its smoothness and she was exhausted. But her wardrobe was a bit out of date, and he looked forward to seeing her in something new.

Realizing Hank was talking, he blinked back to the present. "I'm sorry?"

Hank grinned. "Wow. You really do have it bad!"

Even though he knew exactly what Hank referred to, Charles decided to frown. "Have what bad?" It was stupid and undignified, but he just wasn't ready to let either Hank or Alex know just how deeply Anne affected him. Having them understand that he trusted her and cared enough to reveal his abilities was one thing, but this other awareness he had of her. . . .That was for him to tell her.

Anne appeared a few moments later, looking tired but refreshed. Charles was thankful he'd managed to get his head back into the chess game, or he would have been hopelessly lost. She'd gone and had her hair done, the new style creating waves that bounced around her shoulders and made her eyes sparkle. And her fingers had new red tips, a graceful touch that drew attention to them no matter what she did. And her dress! The red ankle-length dress looked great, hugged her curves, and had a neckline that cut low enough to hint at what lay underneath. The top left her shoulders bare, and Charles had to use every trick he knew to avoid openly staring. Particularly when the sunlight caught on her necklace and glittered tantalizingly at him.

Hank kicked him under the table, a nudge against his wheelchair that pulled him back to reality. Charles glared at his friend and then forced himself to fix another cup of tea. It gave him something to do with his hands while he managed to find the right words to say. He had always known Anne to be a pretty woman, but she had just waltzed into the library like she owned it, a new attitude that thrilled Charles and left him hoping she would begin to see his home that way. After all, he hated even considering the house without her there.

Hank had also been affected, but more by Charles's reaction than anything. He grinned at Anne and asked, "How was your day?"

"Good." Anne moved to the table and settled in a chair between Charles and Hank, much too close in Charles's mind. He still had not gotten control over the urge to stare. "Supper will be a bit late, I'm afraid."

Thankful for a neutral topic—as if anything concerning Anne could be neutral—Charles waved a hand. "We'll order in," he said as he made yet another move on the chessboard, doing his best to sound normal. But, all of a sudden, everything he'd suspected about Anne and her ability to render any guy speechless had been proven. He just hadn't expected to be the guy left unable to think clearly.

Anne studied the chessboard, her gaze drawn to the game. "That sounds good, actually." She glanced between the two men. "What happened while I was gone?"

Charles stared pointedly at Hank and took a sip of his tea. He could have said that Hank and Alex cleaned the chandeliers, but he wanted to know how Hank would handle the question.

To his credit, Hank shrugged nonchalantly. "We just hung out."

The pun was too much for Charles, who knew just how _literal_ that statement had been. He laughed, unable to stop himself in spite of the tea he'd been sipping. Tea splattered on his face and into his sinuses, moving upward and out his nose while more splashed onto the chessboard, effectively ending his turn. Hank grinned while Anne dove for the napkins. Charles, for his part, tried—and failed—to stop tea from running down his face. The urge to laugh was overpowering, both for the release and how he must have looked, and he ended up choking instead.

Anne handed him the napkins and rescued the cup that sat a little too close to the edge of the table while Hank started wiping down the pieces. The younger scientist returned each one to their spot, his mind remembering their positions without fail, while Charles managed to get control of his ability to breathe. "Sorry," he said as soon as he was able to speak.

Anne shrugged. "I obviously missed the inside joke."

"You did," Hank replied, "but that's okay."

Anne grinned at Hank, and Charles was grateful to see a slight flush come to the other man's face. Hank was not immune to the effects of a pretty woman even if he had no intention of ever mentioning it to anyone. Rather than commenting on it, Anne simply handed Charles's tea back to him when he gained control of himself. She smirked. "I have to thank you, Hank. I've never seen Charles Xavier snort tea before."

Charles shook his head and gave a wry glance to both of his friends. "Must be a crime in that. Wasting good tea." He didn't say it, but he still felt a tiny bit moving around in his sinuses.

Anne decided to leave the men to their game, retreating to the couch and her knitting. And Charles did everything in his power to keep his focus on finishing up the trap he'd set for Hank's queen. When he did finally manage to put her into checkmate, Hank slipped away to order their evening meal, leaving Charles with nothing to do save stare at Anne.

Finally, he decided to just tell her what he thought. "You look lovely."

Anne glanced up at him, a blush coming to her face. "Thank you." She opened her mouth and closed it several times before she turned back to her knitting. "I guess I wanted to look a little more professional for when school starts."

"Anne." He waited until she glanced up at him again. "You have always looked great."

She smiled at that. "That's what Rachel said."

"Well, she's right." Charles moved toward her, enjoying the freedom to study how her skirt fell around her legs and how her red fingernails moved on the knitting needles. All at once, everything about her was absolutely enthralling.

Anne snickered. "You're staring again."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "I have good reason."

She gave him a mock glare at his cheeky grin, and Charles decided to excuse himself before he said something truly idiotic. He returned to his study and simply sat in the quiet, looking around.

If anyone had told him in January that he would end up falling in love before September, he would have laughed in their faces. But it appeared that he'd done that very thing, and he couldn't honestly say that he was sorry for it.

~TBC


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** This is one of those intensely emotional chapters. Please be aware that this one deals with past abuse.

As always, I hope you enjoy! ~lg

~oOo~

Charles's reaction was everything Anne had hoped for. She and Rachel had enjoyed their time at the salon, and Anne had chosen her new hairstyle for several reasons. She wanted something relatively easy to fix in the mornings and that looked better than just pulling it back in a bun. The waves produced by a set of hot rollers managed to fit both bills.

Choosing clothing, however, had been a different story. At the department store, she had looked at various pieces of clothing and thought through what wearing them would do to everyone around her. If she chose a blouse cut too low, would someone think she was trying to seduce Charles? If it was too high of a neckline, would he think she was being ridiculous? Or if the skirt was too short? Or too long? Or. . . .She hated asking herself the questions, and she ultimately chose to base her decisions on one thing. What sort of woman did she see Charles dating if he ever managed to get beyond the wheelchair? Using that as her measure, she picked clothing that both suited her, that she liked, and that would, hopefully, leave Charles blinking in shock.

And it had worked. His double-take over the chessboard had brought a smile to her face, as had the way Hank blinked appreciatively. However, she was more curious about this inside joke that Charles and Hank shared and why it resulted in such a spectacular reaction. The tea that Charles had snorted had caught the sunlight and made the incident even funnier, but Anne couldn't help smiling at something else. He had actually stared at her, taking the time to absorb every little thing she wore, and it made her feel incredibly special.

Even Alex stopped and stared when he walked into the kitchen where they'd chosen to eat that evening's meal. "Wow." He blinked. "You look great!"

Anne grinned, not missing the glare that suddenly covered Charles's face. She almost frowned and then realized that he was actually a bit jealous. _Charles is jealous?_ "Thank you, Alex." She decided to gently remind Charles that Alex had a girlfriend and meant nothing by the compliment. "This was Rachel's choice."

At the mention of his girlfriend, Alex smiled. "She's got good taste."

Charles recovered quickly, his glare fading as he watched Anne. "She does, indeed."

Supper passed in good laughter and the sense of family. If Charles stared a bit more than normal, Anne ignored it. And Hank and Alex were in high spirits, drawing Charles out of his irritation and leaving Anne in stitches at the quick insults and puns that flew back and forth across the table. She wondered just what had changed in the last few days to produce such a fun atmosphere and decided it must have been genuine relief that everyone was getting along. At least she no longer felt like anyone was avoiding a subject because it might upset her.

After supper, Anne slipped out of the kitchen and decided to carry her beads and knitting to the library. She worked in silence for about half an hour, and then Charles arrived. Rather than choosing a book or going over lesson plans yet again, he rolled to her side and smiled. "Have a few moments?"

"Always." Anne smiled, finishing up a stitch and then pushing her shawl and bowl of beads to the side. "Thank you, by the way."

"For what?"

"Everything." She wished she knew how to get this out right. "I mean, coming here was just. . . .I needed a job, and I liked that I would be working for someone that I knew. But, it's been. . . ."

"I understand." He sounded like he did. "And, Anne, I'm glad you came."

She didn't quite know how to respond to that.

Charles shifted in his chair, his expression changing to one of contemplation. "But I have to admit that I'm thinking about changing your job title."

Anne blinked at that. "I'm sorry?"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're here." He met her eyes, his blue gaze open and honest. "If it was up to me, I would happily make certain you had everything you want without the need for a paycheck or responsibilities."

"Charles, I. . . ."

"Just let me finish, love." He paired his interruption with a quick move to capture one of her hands in his, holding it in warm grip that somehow left her feeling like he actually cherished her. He continued to watch her closely. "As I said, if I had my way, I would have you here. But you and I both know that neither of us will be comfortable with that right now.

"However, you're not my nurse any longer, and you haven't been for some time." Charles shrugged. "I am grateful you came, but you've been more of an assistant to me than anything else."

Anne returned the grip he had on her hand, wishing she felt comfortable lacing their fingers together. It seemed completely natural to her, but she didn't want him to think she was pushing him into anything. "I'm happy to have done everything I've done here, Charles. You know that."

"Yes, I do. But, frankly, you're more than a housekeeper and cook." He looked at their hands, his words thoughtful. "As much as I appreciate that, I think the title of 'rehabilitation nurse' is a bit of a stretch for who you are and what you do here."

She stared at him, trying not to take offense at his words. He had yet to put her down for anything, so the perceived slight against her profession had to have come out wrong. "Charles, it's what I was trained to do."

"Yes, it is. And I meant nothing by that statement. You do a great job." He studied their hands, seemingly enthralled by the red nail polish. His thumb moved back and forth across the edge of her nail as he gathered his thoughts. "But you do so much more, as I said. And, with school starting in a few weeks, I'm going to need someone who can handle a typewriter and photocopier more than I will a housekeeper or cook."

Anne stared at him, trying to see below the surface of the mask he'd slipped onto his features. Charles had always been good at keeping his own thoughts hidden. "Those jobs still need to be done."

"And I can hire someone to help you with them."

"An assistant for the assistant?" Anne snickered at that. "Charles, even you know that's a bit of a reach. You'll be teaching. . .what? Three days a week?"

"Two, with labs on Friday." He let go of her hand, sitting back in his chair.

Anne tried not to show how the absence of his grip made her feel a bit chilled. "That means I'll have part of those days, plus the others, to do the rest of the work around here." She glanced around. "This is a big house, Charles, but it doesn't require a full-time staff when the people living here keep it up."

"It's your decision, Anne." Charles seemed intent on gauging her reactions. "I won't force you to change if that's not what you want."

Anne stared at him for a long time, trying to see below the surface of what he chose to show her. While his hair was longer than it had been in previous years and he still had that distracting beard, he looked more like the Charles Xavier she remembered with his hopeful eyes and purposeful stare. She remembered this look, usually after she'd shared something else Franklin had done, and it had been that careful moment when he would wait for her to speak, that had won her heart back then.

But now it was different. Now, they were both approaching middle age, a time in their lives when most others had settled relationships and steady jobs. And, while Charles had no need to worry about a _job_ , he still needed friends and family, someone that he truly depended upon when things turned too personal. Anne knew he trusted her, but he had yet to let her behind the mask he kept up with everyone. She wanted behind that mask, to see Charles Xavier when he wasn't smiling or falling apart or so drunk he couldn't control himself.

Unfortunately, he had obviously decided to shut her out for a while. Anne sighed. "Even if I let you change my job on paper, I'm still a rehab nurse. I'm going to ask you questions and push you and make certain you're doing well."

"I would expect nothing less."

She nodded. "Okay." And, with that one word, her job changed.

Charles let out a relieved smile and then backed away from the table. "The first thing you need to know is that you're welcome in the study. And my filing system." He headed for the door, leaving Anne to catch up to him. For the rest of the evening, they sat in the study. It began with Charles showing her how he managed his files and where to find everything, and then they began devising a way to keep track of student progress. By the time Anne retired, she realized that she was woefully unprepared for this new stage in their lives. But she looked forward to it, anyway.

~oOo~

Charles watched Anne leave his study, breathing a sigh of relief when she did. That red dress of hers was beyond distracting. The halter top left her shoulders and upper back bare, revealing a delightful sprinkling of freckles that he'd never expected to see. And it fit her perfectly, making a coherent conversation even more difficult.

 _Get ahold of yourself, Xavier!_ He shook his head as he reached for the book he'd chosen as his text for the class. _She's healing from unspeakable hurts in the past, and you're acting like a hormonal teenager._

At least he'd been able to discuss the new position without revealing why he wanted her as his personal assistant rather than his rehabilitation nurse. When she'd indirectly questioned him about his reasons, he'd been hard pressed to keep from blurting out everything in his mind. _Your ethics_ , he'd wanted to say. _I know your ethics and that you left your previous job because of them. And, frankly, if the time ever comes that I want to kiss you, I'd like to do so without those bloody ethics in the way._

She wasn't ready to hear that, even if he did feel that way. The last few days had begun to reveal his greatest weakness, and it wasn't his inability to walk. It was Anne. She had a way of getting into his head and taking up residence. Charles had chosen to work so diligently on preparing for teaching just as a way to keep himself from becoming too morose. With Anne in the house, he could not just ignore her or pretend she didn't exist. Not when he saw glimpses of her at various times as she cleaned or cooked.

But he couldn't keep letting her rule his thoughts. Not when his thoughts were so far beyond professional or what a friend would think. Just that evening, when Alex complimented her, he had felt a stab of concern that she would be drawn to the younger man in spite of the differences in their age. And it had actually angered him. Anne's quick comment about Rachel choosing her dress had redirected Alex, and Charles had been able to let the jealousy go. But knowing that he _was_ jealous let him see that he needed to find his distance.

But could he? Could he pull away from Anne during this time in her life? She had barely begun to deal with all of the emotion she'd buried for years, and the thought of pulling away just because his emotions and hormones were out of control was unfair to her. Not when he was a grown man and able to decide how to act. It meant he would need a lot more control and a lot more patience with himself, and he suddenly found himself thankful that Hank had thrown away all of the alcohol in the house. At least he didn't have to worry about that stealing his control anymore.

Two days later, Charles asked Hank to take him to town. He needed a grade book as well as a photocopier to finish his preparations, and he wanted to get a good look at the campus. There were parking spaces designated for instructors, and the dean of the college had agreed to mark one of them for him due to his wheelchair. It made getting to the classroom easier, as did the semi-level walkways. Other parts of the campus had stairs, but he could access his room with little trouble.

When the two men returned to the house, they found the kitchen empty. But the sound of the piano filled the lower floor, and Hank gave Charles a startled glance. It had been months since Anne played, and both of them had wondered why.

Charles nodded toward the rear stairs, installed when servants actually used them to access the upper floors. "Stay out of sight, please." His tone was an order, one that Hank happily followed. And he had a good reason.

Quietly rolling toward the music room, Charles sat just out of sight while he listened. Anne played "Moonlight Sonata" again, and he peeked around the corner to see her peaceful expression. He had wondered why the sound of a piano hadn't filled his home, but his struggle with alcohol, his own emotions, and then Anne's meltdown had left him unwilling to ask. Especially when it hadn't been a priority. Anne obviously preferred to knit, and he enjoyed her company enough to ignore the absence of music. However, the effect the smooth tones of the piano had on the entire atmosphere of the home could not be denied, and he suddenly wanted answers.

With this in mind, he entered the room. Anne glanced up when he appeared, the sonata cutting off mid-note, and she flushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you get back."

Charles smiled at her, waving a hand. "Don't stop on account of me."

She glanced at the clock. "I need to start. . . ."

"Anne." He had interrupted, but he hated how she seemed intent on brushing off her talent. When she met his eyes, he motioned to the piano. "I don't mind if you play."

"I know."

"Then why don't you?" He moved toward her, lowering his voice so he didn't feel like he was shouting across the room. "You play beautifully, and it affects everyone in this home."

Anne stared at him, her hands in her lap while she slouched on the piano bench. She moved to close the cover, the tremble in her hands obvious to him as well as the way she blinked. She wanted to cry—again—and Charles had no idea why.

Finally, she sighed. "It's difficult to explain, Charles." She shook her head, looking away while gathering her thoughts. "It's. . . .it's part of life from before, but it's not. . . ." She smiled at him in a way he truly disliked. "It's personal."

She had shut him out. Charles recognized the determination on her face and accepted that with a nod. But he had one more thing to say. "Anne, if you ever want to play, no matter what time of day or night, you are welcome to. And, frankly, I will listen to whatever you play. But I will not force you. Just. . . .Don't ever apologize for it."

She nodded and left then, her jeans whispering as she walked, and Charles closed his eyes and let out a frustrated breath. His fist clenched as he stared at the empty piano bench and absorbed what her emotions had revealed. Even though he only got the vaguest sense of them, he realized that someone in her past had taken her gift—the ability to affect the mindset of others through music—and twisted it into a nightmare.

Not for the first time, he wanted to find several people and truly show them the kind of woman they had destroyed.

~oOo~

Charles had caught her! Anne felt a strange sense of shame as she escaped to the kitchen to begin preparing their evening meal. It was too early for what she had originally planned, and she changed her mind to something that would take a few hours just to keep her hands busy. And she really did like playing the piano. It stretched her hands in unfamiliar ways, but the satisfaction of hearing recognizable songs float off of the strings had a way of calming her mind and releasing some sort of emotion.

Anne couldn't explain it, but the piano was her own personal demon. It represented things about her past that she still had not shared with anyone and had no intention of ever telling Charles. Not when he already knew what happened after she returned from England. He did not need to worry about her life in Oxford. His questions about her refusal to play the piano had stirred up enough emotion in that moment, and she truly wished he could have left it alone. Had he never entered the music room, she would have finished the song, played one or two more, and been completely at ease. Instead, she wanted to stalk around the house and slam doors just to vent the emotion.

She chose to go for a walk instead. With soup on to simmer for the afternoon, Anne banged out of the kitchen and charged down a pathway in the garden. She'd found a dirt lane that led away from the house and into the fields surrounding it. The path wound through trees, over an old walking bridge, and toward the main road before stopping at a pretty meadow some distance away. She doubted she would get to that meadow today, but she wasn't looking for a peaceful place to sit and read. She just wanted to escape.

What was it about Charles that seemed to bring her most hated memories to light? With the sun beating down on her, she lifted her face to glare at the gorgeous blue sky and wished she could just let out a scream of anger. But that would likely bring someone running, and she had no way of explaining to Hank or Alex that she would be fine. Especially not when she knew they would report back to Charles.

He didn't hover to be controlling, though, and Anne knew that. In fact, he allowed her a great deal of liberty, relying on her for only her professional duties. The friendship they shared was solid, and Anne appreciated that he was interested in her life. Not to mention the times when, as things became too tough, he would break out of his reserved habits to either hold her hand or let her cry on his shoulder. She still had his handkerchief from that moment, having washed and ironed it. But giving it back presented her with a strange conundrum. She could have simply left it on his desk one morning before he rose for the day, but that seemed too impersonal. Taking it to him, however, would result in a conversation she did not want to have at this moment. So it sat on her dresser, its monogrammed "CFX" mocking her every morning as she prepared for the day.

Taking a deep breath of mid-August air, Anne finally turned back to the house. The anger and irritation Charles's questions stirred in her had finally faded, and she knew she needed to face this latest hiccup in her life. But putting the months of abuse she endured at Franklin's hands to rest was just as difficult as accepting what she had done while living on the streets. And, as much as he irritated her, Charles was the only one that understood what that acceptance took out of her.

Or was he? Alex seemed conscious of it, as well, and Hank. . . .Well, Hank was just awkward no matter what. Anne truly liked the shy scientist, but he never seemed certain of what to say to her. When they did talk, it wasn't about deep emotion or even to share a camaraderie born of dark history. It was professional, with a set topic, and usually very pragmatic. No, the deeply emotional conversations were saved for Charles, and Alex understood dark history better than most.

Anne pushed away her thoughts about the piano, pointedly ignoring the music room in spite of its need for a thorough dusting. Charles never asked her about it during that time, but she saw his speculative glances. And she knew he wondered. But the time for sharing these particular demons had not come, not yet. Anne wondered if it would ever come. Hank and Alex seemed oblivious, much to her relief, and she spent evenings with Charles as they went over plans for his class or simply played a game or enjoyed one another's company. For two days, it hovered over her like a bucket of water about to burst, and she knew that, sooner or later, it would end up shocking her with its intensity.

Her emotional outburst in the kitchen, when she erupted at Charles and then ran to the garden to hide, had been the same way. Anne knew herself. This tension building up inside of her was a mix between. . .How had Charles put it? A _woman_ thing? That had influenced her decision to play the piano in the first place, and she knew her emotions were on edge because of it. But her life had never been one of easy acceptance. Even before Franklin and the nightmare that was Oxford, she had always struggled to find that moment when she did something right.

So, with all of these thoughts winding through her head, Anne found herself standing in the door of the music room. She'd already dusted and mopped the foyer and hallway, noting that Charles had retreated to his study. He had admitted to wanting to resume his research from years ago, and he spent hours going over his thesis and what he had already done. That purpose had been good for him, and he rarely exhibited the desire for a strong drink outside of his attempt to survive on tea alone.

But, today, it meant he was occupied and, hopefully, would not ask questions.

 _Anne, if you ever want to play, no matter what time of day—or night, you are welcome to. And, frankly, I will listen to whatever you play._ She wanted to desperately believe his words. There were nights, particularly recently, when she woke with her fingers itching to touch ivory keys and hear the melodies that existed solely in her mind. She knew it was a result of his question, and she admitted that, maybe, he had a point.

But today wasn't about Charles or whether he'd accept her or not. This was about _Anne Conrad_ and her need to accept herself. And, whether or not she liked it, this piano was a strange obstacle due to what it represented.

Sliding onto the piano bench she opened the cover and stared at the keys. The first time she played this particular instrument, she had been drawn to the idea of the baby grand piano and the romance of the room. With sunlight streaming through the windows, the wood of the piano had glowed, and she had imagined it sounding much better than it actually did. Later, after the "Mrs. Xavier Incident," a moment she had almost forgotten about until now, she had simply played to hear the smooth sounds. But she hadn't touched it again in weeks, save for the moments she dusted it.

Almost of its own accord, her right thumb found middle C, and she played a scale. _Sit up straight. A young lady never slouches at the piano._ Her piano teacher's voice had been strict and venerable with age, and Anne automatically straightened her posture. Then, with almost a childlike focus, she let her hands fall into the natural scales that had been her speed and warm-up drills for all those years.

Then came the flourishes. And then chords. This was her habit, her way of easing back into playing the piano. She'd done it for years, and it had always soothed her. Now, she stared at her hands.

Could she do it? Could she abandon the music she'd so carefully memorized all those years ago and play what her mind produced in her dreams? She touched the keys again, this time finding the D-minor chord. It sounded off, so she dropped it half a step, choosing a D-flat as her starting note. With very little effort, she eventually settled into a tune she had played only once before.

 _Wha's 'at_? The drunken memory startled her, and she hit a wrong note. _Yer playin' a piana!_ Sniggers and curses followed, and Anne closed her eyes against them. The day she'd last played this tune had been the day she escaped to the library at Oxford. But it was burned into her memory, as well as the shame of what happened later.

She had returned to the flat she shared with Franklin to find that he'd taken a bat to the upright piano that belonged to their landlord, the keys broken and the wood cracked. Anne had cried at the sight, but her tears soon changed to horror when he came at her. _Yer mine_ , he told her with a sneer and his breath smelling of alcohol. _An' no woman o' mine'll be so high n' mighty that she can't remember her place!_

Shaking herself from her memories, Anne slammed the cover on the piano closed, the clap of the wood echoing around the music room. She blinked, surprised to realize that she'd never left Charles's home. But the tension in her spine and the way her arm and ribs ached was no match for reality. Franklin had left her with a sprained elbow, plenty of bruises, and cracked ribs. He had done more than that, forcing her into the kitchen to cook his meal while he poured himself another drink and continued to berate her. The day had been humiliating, and, when he had finally collapsed in a drunken stupor, she had run to the library.

That was the night Charles learned what Franklin had been doing. Anne blinked again, tears slipping down her cheeks as she remembered how angry Charles had been. He was the reason she never went to the doctor. Rather than disparaging her, he had pulled out another of those monogrammed handkerchiefs, wet it with cool water from the men's room, and then dabbed at the split lip and black eye that Franklin had left. He had asked her permission to examine her other injuries, and Anne had sat tensely while he gave her a preliminary diagnosis of the fractures in her ribs. Then, when she almost panicked at the thought that he would find Franklin, he had promised not to interfere.

Years later, Anne wanted to run to Charles, to cry on his shoulder again. But he had research to do, and she hated to appear so dependent. So, she forced herself to open the piano. Her hands shook as she played the same tune, her jaw clenched against the memories. Franklin's accusations and shouts and poison flowed through her head as the music pounded from the piano. And, through it all, Anne played. Even with her eyes open, she couldn't keep the tempo soft, though the notes were correct, and she ignored the physical cost. This wasn't about whether she cooked supper on time or whether anyone enjoyed the sound of the piano. This was her way of facing the biggest nightmare of her past so far.

And, when she finally let the notes fade away, she felt she had succeeded.

~oOo~

The first note from the piano startled Charles from his reading. He looked up, his eyes fixed on the door of his study, as several scales echoed through the house. A quick check told him that Hank was downstairs, where the sound of the piano couldn't reach him. But Alex had the day off, and he was on his way to the kitchen. Charles touched his temple. _Stay upstairs_ , he told Alex silently.

To his credit, Alex obeyed.

Breathing a sigh of relief that this day wouldn't dissolve into a huge explosion, Charles waited. He sat tensely, feeling the strain in Anne's emotions. She had been in a knot since he found her playing the piano last, and her move to do so with all three men in the house today had encouraged him.

The slight clap of the piano lid slamming shut startled him, and Charles touched his head again. Anne's mind was a blank, but he managed to hear one thing. _Wha's 'at? Yer playin' a piana!_ The disdain and sadistic tone of the words told him who she had remembered. And he recalled the day, having it burned into his memory just as surely as Anne could never forget. She had charged into the library that day, wearing large sunglasses and a scarf in spite of the warmth outside. And, when she found him, she had almost burst into tears. Her lip had been split, the wound having scabbed and then re-opened. And she held her arm against her side in a way that was unnatural. Charles had glanced around to see that they were alone and then gently tugged her deeper into the stacks. There, he sat her in a chair, used his handkerchief to clean her face, and then fumed when he realized that monster had actually cracked her ribs.

Now, over ten years later, Anne had finally found the courage to face that demon in her past. A smile touched Charles's lips, one that had nothing to do with amusement or enjoyment. No, he was relieved. The last time a part of her past came to the fore, she had let it build until they ended up shouting at one another.

No wonder she never played the piano. Charles closed the books he'd been studying, left his papers spread across his desk, and rolled toward the music room. The tempo of the music had picked up, the low notes building apprehension while the high ones expressed panic. He stopped just outside the door, the waves of anger and hurt and absolute loathing coming from Anne almost overwhelming in spite of her shield. Not for the first time, he wondered if he even had the ability to help her, let alone comfort her. And, just as he'd been when she told him of those months she spent on the streets, he was again chastised for his inability to accept what life had dealt him.

Finally, the music softened, the notes flowing more as the tension faded. Charles closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as the hurt changed to a dull ache, like an infected wound that had been cleansed and then bandaged. He listened for several more moments before entering the music room.

Anne sat at the piano, her shoulders hunched, her face splotchy, and her expression tired. She glanced up when she saw him and froze, the chord ringing clearly before she went back to the music. Charles did not misunderstand her message. He was welcome to listen, but she would not be talking.

Touching his fingers to his temple a final time, Charles found Hank's mind. _Order take-out,_ he thought. _It's one of those nights for Anne._

A few minutes later, Hank's thoughts confirmed that he understood.

Moving to one of the couches in the room, Charles transferred from his wheelchair, preferring the comfort of the couch. It was a nuisance, but it also helped keep him from absolutely hating his wheelchair. For now, it sat forgotten as he watched. He did not recognize the music, but he saw how it changed Anne. The soft tune lingered, wandered, and ultimately came back around to a central theme: peace. It spoke to her state of mind that she was able to produce something so beautiful in spite of the emotional storm that had obviously taken place.

And, during those moments, Charles made his decision. He might have fallen in love with her, and he likely always would love her. But Anne did not need his hormones or his emotions at this moment. She needed his _acceptance_. So, no matter how he felt or how often she managed to leave him speechless, he would not do more than show her that he accepted her. That he wanted her around, enjoyed her music, loved to watch her knit, and in general needed her in his life. If that developed into a true romantic relationship in the coming months and years, Charles would let it as _Anne_ took the steps. But he would not push her, not until she was ready to follow that particular path.

That decision allowed him to relax into the couch, manually cross his legs, and reach for the book sitting on the side table. It was a novel, one that his mother had loved, but Charles didn't care. He spent the remainder of the afternoon reading while she poured out her heart through music.

~TBC


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note:** Once again, thank you for all the reviews, particularly the guest reviews I can't respond to! They're greatly appreciated!

This chapter contains spoilers for both _First Class_ and _Days of Future Past_. As always, enjoy! ~lg

~oOo~

Alex sat on the top step, having obeyed Charles's telepathic instruction to stay upstairs but not returning to his bedroom. He saw Charles wheel toward the music room and listened, hoping to hear voices. But neither Charles nor Anne said anything. Instead, the music built and then subsided, falling into a lilting melody that reminded him of the ocean.

He had not even known that Anne played the piano. It had to be Anne because Charles had been in his study. And Hank. . . .If it did not involve microbiology or science, Hank was lost.

Pushing the thought of his friend away, Alex propped his chin on his knees and let his mind wander. He understood the fight that the music represented, though he could not fathom why Anne would feel so intensely. Yes, she had a past. But didn't they all? And, yes, she struggled to accept it. But Alex still had not fully allowed himself to feel the impact of his time in Vietnam. He had his mornings when he ran just so he didn't have to think about the nightmares, his nights when he sought Rachel's arms to avoid sleeping, and his days that he spent working as a janitor in the local high school to keep from dwelling on more than the next trash can to be emptied or the floor needing to be polished.

Anne played the piano for another hour, the melody and key shifting several times over the course of the afternoon. But Alex was unable to recognize any of the tunes save what they meant. Peace. Somehow, this music brought peace to the entire house. Alex sat in the same spot, shifting to lean against the wall, until the music stopped. Once it faded away and he heard Charles speaking softly, he unfolded his legs and headed back upstairs. He had been on his way to the kitchen to fix a snack before visiting Rachel, but he decided against that. If Anne could face her nightmares, he should be able to do the same.

A quick phone call told Rachel why he was canceling their plans, and she assured him that she needed to work late anyway. Alex hung up, grateful for the woman in his life. He could not see himself settling with Rachel, especially as she wasn't a mutant. Charles might have managed to find human women who accepted who and what they were, but Alex's abilities. . . .He just could not imagine it. Not right then. Still, he and Rachel were great together, they always had fun no matter if they were at her place or not, and he liked to use that relationship to get under Charles's skin.

A knock on the door came around supper time, and Alex moved to answer it. He blinked when he saw Anne on the other side.

She shrugged, her face red. "You said. . . ." She twisted her fingers together. "I mean, um. . . You said. . . ."

Alex grinned at that. He knew why she had come. Stepping into the hallway, he wrapped her in a hug, holding her close the way he might a sister. And she let out a deep breath, the deep circles under her eyes a testament to how draining the day had been. She did not bury her face in his chest the way she had with Charles that one evening. Instead, she simply smiled up at him. "Thanks."

Alex shrugged. "What's a brother for?"

Anne turned to walk away. "Food is here."

Alex realized this might be a good opportunity to ask a few questions. "Anne?" When she blinked at him, he met her eyes. "How do you do it?" When she gave him a blank stare, he clarified, "Face the past?"

Anne gave a small laugh, one that was clearly still bruised. "You do it because you need to." She looked down at her hands, where she had begun to pick at the pretty red polish on her fingernails. "You just. . .let the memories come, bleed off the tension as much as you can, and learn how to let go. It's not something that I can really explain."

He reached for her hands, stopping the nervous habit. "That's it?"

She shrugged with one shoulder. "That's how _I_ do it." Then, she looked up at him, her voice as firm as it had ever been with Charles. "But one thing you _cannot_ do is bury it. That's what got Charles into the situation he was in, and that's why I'm. . . ." Tears came to her eyes, and she blinked them away. "That's why I'm a wreck."

Alex let her go then, content that she would be okay. She talked to Charles, not Alex. And Alex understood why. He just hoped that, one day, Charles would recognize the gift that Anne gave him and return it.

~oOo~

The week passed rather quickly, much to Anne's surprise. Charles never asked her to explain what had happened the day she played the piano, and she found that she wanted to tell him. Somehow, his silence on the matter, while not disapproving or even negative, left her wishing he would push just a little. But he seemed intent on ignoring her hints, on studying for his class, and on continuing his research.

It frustrated her.

The day she found a copy of his thesis, however, made her smile. It had been three days since her break down at the piano, and she had chosen to straighten the library, dusting and cleaning the top shelves that Hank had never done. When Charles rolled through the door, she expected him to ask for a book from one of those upper shelves. Instead, he sighed up at her. "Anne, love, would you mind lending me a hand for a moment?"

She nodded and climbed down the ladder. "What do you need?"

Embarrassment tinged his features. "I've misplaced a portion of my old research, and I'm hoping that someone else can find it."

Anne followed him to his study, listening as he spoke. The place was an absolute wreck, though not in the way it had been when she first arrived. Sunshine poured through large windows, glowing off of paneled walls. The lamps had been replaced with elegant lighting, and the furniture was widely-spaced and comfortable. No, the room looked like a college student had holed up in here just before finals week and had not left. Pages covered the desk, the credenza, and the coffee table. All the papers had once been organized, along with the notebooks, but Charles's search had obviously disrupted his careful planning.

This was going to take a while.

Anne took a deep breath. "What are you looking for? Exactly?"

He told her, the words that topped the page unfamiliar. But the date was nearly ten years ago, and she decided to scan for that. At least she would understand that without having to ask for his translation. Tackling the coffee table while he went back to his desk, she began sorting through notes he'd written recently and those from years in the past. His habit of dating everything helped, and he had managed to keep the pages in some semblance of order within notebooks or paper clips. It made her job easier.

She stopped when she picked up a small booklet, however. It had been typed, the cover page showing the date sometime in 1962.

Charles glanced up. "Find it?"

"No." She grinned slightly. "I found your thesis, though."

He rolled toward her. "That's just one copy. The original is there." He pointed to the bookshelf behind his desk, where a set of encyclopedias had been gathered as well as various other books.

Anne set the copy of his thesis to the side and went back to her search. They eventually found the page he needed, much to his sincere delight, and Anne laughed with him. But, as she slipped out of the study and left him to his work, she took his thesis with her. Something about this work had captured his attention again, and she wanted to know what it was.

Charles had seen her take his thesis. But he said nothing, and Anne left him to his research.

~oOo~

Charles couldn't stop Anne from taking his thesis even had he wanted. She had always been curious about his work, and this showed an assertiveness that he rather liked. It made him think of the evening she typed his syllabus, and he watched her disappear with a smile. She really should have asked, but he would have given his permission anyway. Besides, by living in the house with him, Alex, and Hank, she'd learn about mutation eventually. While a nerve-wracking thought, primarily because of the average human's reaction to their powers, the idea of Anne knowing wasn't exactly unwelcome.

Going back to his research, the hours slipped away until Hank poked his head in to tell him it was supper time. Charles blinked at the clock, surprised he'd managed to miss even the smell of food while he worked. But Anne's help with organizing his study that day had been both enjoyable and extremely beneficial. He had gained more ground than he even hoped in familiarizing himself with the topic of genetic mutation.

Supper was a quiet affair that evening, and Charles thanked Anne for her work. Then, he retreated to the library to read while she knitted. The rest of that week passed in much the same way. Anne came to him several times, asking him to clarify a topic in his thesis, but she did not comment otherwise. So, he sat back to wait, knowing there would be a discussion about genetic mutation. He somehow knew that her reaction to it would determine whether he ever told her about his own abilities.

With just one week left before classes began, however, Charles was startled to feel a headache begin right behind his eyes. He had been in his study for several hours, but the light was good and he had not been doing much beyond reading. But this headache indicated frustration, and Charles took a moment to telepathically take count of the minds in his home. Hank was in his lab—as usual. And Alex had worked late and now cleaned up from a long day. Neither man showed signs of frustration, which left only one source.

Leaving his reading for another day, Charles headed for the library. It was Anne's favorite room, though he suspected their evenings in there had something to do with that, and he found her sitting in her typical spot. The beaded shawl she'd been knitting was spread out on one of the cushions, and he didn't need to see her face to know she was scowling at it.

He easily heard her muttering. "No. . . .that's not. . . . _How_ am I off count?" She turned to study the pattern book, reading aloud in a language Charles still had not learned. "That's what I did!" She went back to the shawl, counting stitches in a tone that said she was going to cry if she didn't figure it out.

And Charles was going to need a pain killer if the headache got much worse. Rolling into the room, he raised an eyebrow when she never responded and then leaned closer than he normally would have. "You're giving _me_ a headache, love."

Anne's reaction made him smile. She jumped, her entire body constricting as she gasped and then turned to stare at him. "Charles Xavier! Don't ever do that again!"

He laughed at her reaction, sitting back in his chair and backing away from the couch. "You were rather focused."

She rolled her eyes. "I made a mistake somewhere and can't figure it out." Pushing aside the knitting, she watched while he transferred from the wheelchair to the couch, her eyes narrowed. "Done with research for the day?"

He met her eyes. "If you're done with counting for the day."

"Touché." She ran a hand over her eyes. "I had hoped to have that thing finished before school started, but I just cannot figure out what I did wrong."

He tilted his head to one side. "Leave it for a while. If it's not finished before classes begin, it's not finished."

She huffed at him. "You have a way of making it sound so simple."

"And you have a way of putting too much pressure on yourself." When she gave him a sharp glance, he leaned forward. "Anne, it's meant to be a relaxing activity, not a frustrating one. If you're so frustrated that you're telegraphing your headache, then it's time to let it rest."

She narrowed her eyes slightly and then sighed. "You're right."

Charles leaned back in his chair, his smile playing across his face. "At least there's that."

Anne gave him a look that said she probably would have kicked him had he been closer and able to feel it, but she gathered up the project and shoved it into its bag. Then, she focused on the coffee table. "Thanks for the other day, by the way." When he simply waited for her to clarify that statement, she flushed. "When I was playing the piano."

Nodding once, he also looked at nothing in particular. This wasn't history that she could tell him about. They had shared those months, both of them going through a myriad of emotional ups and downs. For Charles, it had been a time of learning that he didn't have to fix everything. For Anne, it had been a nightmare. "It was Franklin, wasn't it?"

She nodded. "Why am I not surprised you managed to figure it out?"

He forced himself to smile. "You're going through a tough time right now. Facing the hurts of the past is never easy, and one typically leads to another."

"You should have been a psychologist." Her quip, while irritated, made him chuckle under his breath. Then, she shrugged. "He hated that I played the piano. He hated that I was from money. He hated pretty much everything about me."

Charles knew that this openness was needed, but he also wanted to be careful with what he said. Those years in Oxford were some of his best years, but they constituted the beginning of her worst. "Anne, he was wrong." He tilted his head until she met his eyes. "He never wanted to understand you, only to control you. And not one bit of it was your fault."

"I know." She finally lifted her chin. "I _know_ that, Charles. I mean, it's what kept me sane during those months and why I was able to leave. Well," she said with a slight hesitation in her voice, "that and a certain genetics student working on his thesis."

Charles truly laughed at that. "I'm happy I was able to be there."

She nodded. "Me, too."

They didn't say a whole lot for the rest of the evening, and Charles didn't need the conversation. Anne had enough on her plate to keep her mind occupied for years to come if she let it. But her willingness to discuss Franklin indicated that she'd begun to heal, something that he was more than happy to see.

~oOo~

Three days later, Charles sat in the library, sipping a cup of tea and going over his notes one final time. He'd prepared a broad range of topics to be discussed in his class, and he had already decided that labs would be held at the mansion. That way, he could get around easily without the college having to change things just for him. The dean was relieved to know that no other considerations had to be made beyond a parking space, and Charles liked the idea of teaching students in his home.

It was merely one more step toward his goal of reopening his school.

Anne had been quiet since their conversation about Franklin and her past. She had tucked away that shawl, choosing to focus on a different project. Charles knew that her own healing process was pretty intense, and he refused to put more pressure on her. But she still smiled at him every morning, her eyes tired but manner relaxed. It told him she wasn't sleeping well, but it also warned him not to ask.

Some nightmares were better faced alone.

Movement outside the window brought Charles out of his thoughts, and he frowned as Alex walked by the window. The previous evening had not been an easy one for Alex, either. Charles had managed to glean from Alex's thoughts that the anniversary of Sean's death had hit again, something that he'd been unaware of for a long time. Thinking of Banshee and how he'd been taken by Trask was heartbreaking, and Charles bore his fair share of guilt over ignoring what could happen to mutants drafted into the military.

Erik had been right to call him on his desire to disappear, to pretend to be something he wasn't.

Deciding the preparations for next week could wait, Charles left the library behind and made his way outside. It was a gray day, the warmth of summer fading into a slight hint of fall. Soon, the trees would begin to change, and a chill would creep into the air. Charles looked forward to it for the freedom to light a fire or the chance to simply listen to the silence of falling snow. But, for now, it meant that everything was faded, that shadows were deeper, and emotions lower.

He found Alex a while later, at the side of the house and staring at a bunch of shrubbery that had been allowed to outgrow its original location. Charles grinned. He clearly remembered the day Sean had tried to fly out of a window and landed in the shrubbery, face down, after a pitiful croak.

Alex heard him coming and turned. "He never forgave you for that."

"I know." Charles stopped next to Alex. He studied the window above them with a smile. But, a moment later, the smile faded as he asked what had not been told when Erik confronted him. "What happened?"

"Same thing that happened to the rest of us. They found out about his abilities and put him under quarantine." Alex shrugged. "Raven wasn't there to get him out."

Charles listened, hearing more than Alex cared to admit. It wasn't quite so clear-cut as all of that, and both men knew it. "I am sorry, Alex. I know words can't begin to undo the past, but you have to know that I regret everything about those days."

Alex frowned at him. " _You're_ sorry? You're not the one who took him, experimented on him, and then let him loose on the Vietcong." He went back to studying the patch of shrubbery. "He didn't stand a chance. And, when the fighting was over, they. . . ."

Charles didn't need Alex to continue. He saw clearly in the other man's mind what had happened. Sean had been taken and dissected, the military and Trask searching for a reason his voice could do what it did. They called it an autopsy, but every person involved knew better.

Not for the first time, he felt the sting of tears at the loss of yet another friend.

Alex drew in a deep breath and then pushed it out. "There are days I just want to. . . .I wish. . . .Sometimes, I wish Raven had succeeded at the White House."

Charles sucked in a mouthful of air at that. "No, you don't." He had so much he had not told very many people. "If she'd succeeded in killing Trask, we would all be dead within fifty years. And the Sentinels would control this world."

"You can't know that!"

"I can." Charles shook his head. "I saw it, Alex. Somehow, a man from the future managed to come back here, to warn me and Hank of what was happening. And, during those few days, Logan let me see a glimpse of what becomes of us. Had Raven killed Trask, everything that Erik fears and believes would have come true. Mutants would have been identified, hunted, and slaughtered. And it would not have stopped there. Humans who would eventually produce mutant offspring would have been killed." He sighed. "It would have been a second Holocaust, a Holocaust far worse because no one would have been safe."

The two men were quiet for a long time, both caught up in their thoughts. Charles had followed these paths quite often in the months before he asked Anne to come to his home, and he was now simply tired of rehashing them. But Alex. . . .For Alex, the horror was still vibrant.

The younger man shook his head. "I asked Anne how she faced the past."

"And?"

"And she said it starts with facing the memories." Alex turned back to the window. "I guess I'm not ready for that."

Charles nodded, understanding. "When you are, you always have a place here." He paused and then decided to add, "As will anyone, human or otherwise, who needs a safe place to heal."

Alex stared at him. "You still believe we can live peacefully with humans?"

Charles smiled at that, a sad expression that did nothing to relieve the heaviness of the day. "I have hope," he clarified. "And, because of that hope, I choose to believe."

Alex turned, his arms folded across his chest. "What else did you see? In the future, I mean."

"A school." Charles looked around at the grounds, seeing the amount of work that needed to be done. "A place where mutants of every age could come and be safe. A place where we are accepted for who and what we are without the need to hide."

"You can't know that what happened won't still happen."

"No, I can't." Charles sighed. "But I can have hope."

"And how does Anne fit in?"

Charles took a moment to think that through. In the short glimpse he'd seen of the future, he had not been worried about a woman who had or had not come into his life. He had simply wanted a way to cope with the pressure of the voices he heard all the time. He wanted to deal with his pain. "I don't know," he admitted to Alex. "But I hope she's there when we get to that fifty-year mark."

Alex snorted at those words, but he wisely did not comment. Instead, he went back to the patch of shrubbery, his thoughts returning to Sean and the few days they'd spent training before the events in Cuba. "He sounded pathetic."

Charles accepted the subject change for what it was and grinned. "Yes, he did."

"Did Erik really push him off of the satellite dish?"

Charles glanced over his shoulder, where the huge dish could still be seen. "Yes." He shook his head. "I could have strangled Erik for that."

Alex sobered. "He saved my life. Sean did. That day in Cuba," he clarified when Charles looked a little lost. "Kept me out of the military's hands for a few more years."

Charles turned his chair to head back to the house, putting a hand on Alex's arm since he couldn't reach the other man's shoulder. "He was a good man, Alex. A good _friend_. And there is no shame in grieving for him."

Alex nodded, his thoughts muddled with the horrors he'd witnessed and the loss of his friend. Charles left him, knowing that Alex needed to work out his own past. Then, he shook his head. Somehow—and he still wanted to know how—those in need of acceptance and healing found their way to his doorstep. More often than not, they were mutants like Hank and Alex. But, sometimes, he managed to find humans like Anne who also needed a safe place to hide for a time.

Not for the first time, he was thankful he had the means and house to make certain they all had what they needed.

~TBC


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note:** Apologies for not posting a chapter on Friday. That day turned out completely hectic, as did the rest of the weekend. But it was a good sort of hectic.

As always, I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, particularly as it begins to deal with something all of you have been anticipating. ~lg

~oOo~

Day One of college was always stressful to students. Anne clearly remembered her own arrival at Oxford, how she'd struggled to understand everything while she hoped she didn't look like the _nouveau riche_ American who thought she could waltz into a British university and take her place among them. That her father was a British expatriate and had also graduated Oxford did her a slight bit of good, but she had still wrestled with being accepted. Then, she met Franklin and Charles, both men having a profound impact on her life.

Only one of them still influenced her, though the other still managed to intrude from time to time. This morning, she rose early, making tea and then slipping upstairs to dress. She'd chosen another long skirt, this one white with orange, pink, red, and yellow flowers climbing one side, a matching orange top, and a brown blazer to match the leaves on the skirt. It was modern and pretty and made her smile to see it. The orange top fit much like her red dress, so she chose to cover her shoulders with the blazer and hoped to see that strange grin on Charles's face once she slipped it off. She'd seen that smile on other men's faces, usually when they either realized what she'd been or had hired her to _be_ that woman. But, with Charles, it thrilled her while other men sickened her. She knew the difference and understood why. Charles saw her, and the effect her clothing had on him was born from more than mere physical desire.

Pushing those thoughts from her mind, she fastened the necklace he'd given her around her neck and smiled when it nestled perfectly into the V-neck of her blouse. Then, with her hair bouncing on her shoulders, she headed for the kitchen and breakfast.

Charles was waiting for her, a smile on his face that had nothing to do with the food or having slept well. He took a sip of his tea as she walked through the door and raised an eyebrow. "You look lovely."

"Thank you. Again." Anne reached for a plate and served her own breakfast. Class began somewhat early, the first one of the day for many students, and she knew Charles wanted to get to the college in time to settle into the room.

Hank and Alex appeared, too, both of them looking like they'd just awakened. Alex wore sweats and nodded on his way past. "Good luck, Professor."

Charles shook his head. "Thank you."

Hank fixed a cup of tea and turned to Anne. "You sure you want to do this? College is. . . ."

Anne laughed at the awkward look on his face, the only way she could avoid the panic that tightened her throat. "I went to Oxford, Hank. I remember my first day there. This can't be as bad."

"Right." Hank nodded and picked up the plate he had fixed. "Good luck."

Within the hour, Anne found herself behind the wheel of the car, watching Charles from the corner of her eye as he went over his lesson plans for the umpteenth time that morning. Then, when they arrived at the college, she found his reserved parking space near a ramp installed less than two years ago. Charles waited patiently for the small wheelchair he used in public, and then Anne handed him the brown leather briefcase he used to carry most of his paperwork.

Once inside, however, she took a moment to breathe. Charles hesitated in the doorway of the classroom, his expression thoughtful as he took in the atmosphere. The fall semester had just begun, and the room still smelled of disinfectant used by the janitorial staff. Anne waited patiently, knowing this moment was important. She followed him into the room and carefully moved to the desk. He would get there eventually.

While she waited, she took a few moments to pick her own spot. She knew Charles would need her help, but she hoped to slip to the back of the room and simply watch the other students. Their reactions to Charles would be just as important as the step he'd taken in coming here.

He chuckled, a sound that was both relieved and strained. "I wasn't certain coming here would. . . ." He turned to Anne. "I'm sorry, love. It's just that. . . ."

She nodded. "It's a big step, Charles. One you need to take."

"I know." He rolled over to the desk, taking a position behind it that made it look like he was just sitting there, not in a wheelchair. "But I worry."

"About what?"

He glanced up, not moving his head and choosing to simply focus on her with those intense blue eyes. "Students can be cruel."

The simple statement covered a wealth of meaning. Anne understood. When she first got off the streets, people weren't so accepting of her. They looked at her like the prostitute from down the road, expected her to act that way, and in general hinted at things in conversation that left her angry and ashamed. For Charles, it would be different, but no less emotional. "Can you handle the questions?"

He lifted his chin. "I need to." He met her eyes. "Can you?"

That was a good question. "I hope so."

"Good." He pointed to a chair near his desk, one that put her at the front of the room. "Would you mind staying there? At least initially. Passing out the syllabus is going to be the first thing to do, and. . . ."

Anne moved to the desk, putting a hand on his shoulder as she leaned against it. "Charles. Breathe. You'll do fine."

He nodded, his hands visibly shaking. And Anne knew why. Just as much as she was thrilled with his decision to teach, it had only been a couple of months since she came to work with him. He had made tremendous progress, but that progress did not undo years of isolation. Just being here had to be wearing on him in a way that Anne would never truly understand.

The door opened, and Anne straightened to move to the seat Charles had pointed out. She watched as the first student, a young man with longish hair and a tired expression, flopped into the seat furthest from the instructor's desk. Charles took a moment to study him and then gave Anne a tiny grin as if he knew exactly what the student was thinking. Looking at the kid, Anne had to agree. It didn't take much to know that he wanted to be anywhere else but here.

The other students arrived one at a time, carrying notebooks, textbooks, and backpacks. Rachel was among the last to appear. She gave Anne a friendly smile and included Charles in it, and Anne saw the genuine relief that flowed from him. At least he had one friendly face in the crowd.

Finally, at the appropriate time, Charles took a deep breath and pushed himself away from the desk. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is 'Introduction to Genetics.' If you have not signed up for this class, you may want to excuse yourself and find the correct classroom."

Anne watched the students carefully during this moment. As he'd spoken, Charles had wheeled himself away from the desk and into their full view. Rachel never responded, having known for some time that Charles was paralyzed. But the other reactions were interesting. Two students gathered their obviously different textbooks and scurried out the door while the majority straightened in their seats. Some looked at Charles with pity, but most seemed entirely curious and a few apathetic. The young man in the back of the room was unreadable.

Once the door closed after the two erroneous students, Charles smiled at the class. "My name is Charles Xavier. I graduated from Oxford University in 1962, and it is my pleasure to be here today. My lovely assistant, Anne Conrad, also attended Oxford and will be joining us for every class for obvious reasons." He nodded to her, and she stood distribute the syllabi. Charles continued, "Now, while Miss Conrad passes those out, I want to know why you chose to take this class."

Anne buried a grin at the way the announcement that both she and Charles were from such a prestigious university affected the students, as well as his way of leaning forward slightly in his chair. He hadn't moved much since revealing his disability, but he had managed to take control of the classroom with just a few words. Part of her was thankful he said she "attended" Oxford rather than _graduating_ from Oxford. Either way, the students seemed to treat her with a bit more respect.

One young woman raised her hand, her voice timid as she spoke. "Um. . .what happened in January?"

Charles raised an eyebrow at her. "Could you be a bit more specific?"

She flushed. "Right. Sorry. Um. . .what happened at the _White House_ in January?"

Charles nodded. "You mean when the mutant saved the President." At the numerous nods, he grinned. "That is part of what we will be discussing in this course. And, as I figured each of you would have questions about that incident, I plan to allow open discussion of mutation and all its effects on society as it relates to the study of genetics."

The young man in the back shifted in his seat. "Yeah, Prof, you seem pretty cool with all that."

Charles actually chuckled. "Because I was there." His announcement caused a slight commotion. "I saw what happened, though at the time, I was trapped under scaffolding. My point is, this subject is in our culture, and with mutants becoming known, it is important that we understand where they come from and why they exist."

"Is that when you were. . .uh. . ."

"Paralyzed?" Charles didn't hesitate to use the word. "No. I was injured shortly after I graduated, and that left me in this chair."

Another girl frowned at him. "So, you think because you know genetics that you can explain everything that happened at the White House?"

"No." Charles shook his head. "My thesis was on genetic mutation, and it was consulted heavily during January. As for explaining everything that happened at the White House, there is not much more than can be explained. The media has done a fair job of it already." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "In relation to this class, however, we will begin the study on genetics, and that leads us to the question of mutation. Why do some of you have blue eyes and others brown? What about hair color? Height? Weight? Why can one person write with their left hand while the rest of us use our right hand? All of these factors can be determined through genetics. And, in a portion of the population, these genes have mutated, creating individuals with powers such as the ability to control metal or to change their appearance."

And the class began. Anne sat in her chair, listening as Charles outlined his plans to begin helping the students understand the basic building blocks of humanity. He spoke with a strong preference for mutants while most of the class seemed a touch skeptical. But Anne smiled. No wonder Charles seemed to have no problem understanding and accepting what she'd done in the past. He had already been put in a position to accept something that, to most of the world, seemed impossible.

By the end of the hour, he looked absolutely worn out but incredibly content. Anne stayed in her seat, watching as most of the men in the room hurried out while laughing or greeting one another with slaps on the back. The girls grinned at Charles, several giving him looks that could only be labeled "seductive." Anne wanted to pull them aside and let them know that he was not interested in any of them, and she flushed when Charles caught her glare. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, his opinion on those particular girls obvious.

The young kid in the back of the room, however, stopped next to Charles's chair. "Thanks, Prof," he said quietly.

Charles narrowed his eyes slightly and then looked startled. "You're welcome."

Rachel was the last one to leave. She smiled at both of them. "Thanks for explaining everything, Professor."

Charles returned the smile, his tension easing out of his shoulders. "Don't worry about it, Rachel. And it's good to see you here."

Rachel glanced at Anne. "I figured I'd need to understand this subject soon, what with January's thing at the White House and all." She sobered slightly. "I didn't know you were there."

Anne couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped. That tidbit had surprised _her_ as well. "Neither did I," she said with a grin at Charles.

He looked from Rachel to her, his grin a bit sheepish. "I'm sorry, love, it just. . .didn't seem important at the time."

He was right, and Anne knew it. But she was curious. How had he escaped if he'd been buried under scaffolding? Had they brought in a crane to move it? Or had one of these mutants done so? If this mutant that could control metal had moved it, why? What connection did he have to Charles?

Rachel said goodbye, and Anne pushed away her questions to gather the bits of paper left scattered around the room. Charles shoved his material into his briefcase and set it on his lap while they headed for the door. Anne watched him leave, seeing the way his shoulders relaxed once he was out of the room. Falling into step with his chair while he carefully pushed through the students moving from class to class, she grinned at him. "So, how does it feel to be a professor again?"

Charles scoffed. "Don't say that." His expression fell a bit, and then he seemed to decide to move on. "Do say you'll have lunch with me."

Anne actually laughed at that, enjoying the hopeful glance he gave her. "I'll have lunch with you."

"Wonderful."

~oOo~

As Anne drove toward the restaurant that Charles had chosen, he sat back in the car and let out a deep breath. Class had drained him. He had heard every thought in the students' minds, from their pity to their questions to the way the young women looked at him in speculation. It had been everything he could do to stay in that room and keep the information flowing. Over the hour, however, the initial reactions faded as the students found that he intended to challenge their minds and their methods of viewing their worlds.

The one person's mind that had been completely inaccessible to him, however, was Anne's. And, more than anything, he wanted to know what she thought. Unfortunately, she seemed inordinately annoyed at the moment. "Anne?" He frowned when she parked at the restaurant he'd chosen for that day. It was a place that typically required reservations, but Graymalkin Industries' had purchased the small chain some years back. He was always welcome.

She sighed and actually flushed. "I'm sorry. It's just. . . .I see how they look at you, and it really irritates me."

Charles stared at her. "I'm in a wheelchair, love. The pitying looks are normal." _But never easy to bear._

Anne snickered. "It's not that, Charles. I can handle the pity; I've dealt with that long enough. It's the _girls_."

He wanted to laugh but instead blinked. He knew exactly which girls she meant and couldn't help but agree with her. After all, they had been less-than-subtle in their thoughts about what they might be able to offer their "hot" professor in exchange for a good grade. "Anne Conrad, are you jealous?"

She turned an impressive glare toward him. "No more than you were the other night."

Charles shook his head. "You're an attractive woman, Anne, and I know other men notice it. Even Hank and Alex. And, given what you've gone through, it irritates me. This other. . . ." Then, he sighed. "This is just university life. There will always be one or two who think they can get a good grade in the class by seducing the professor. It happens more often than we like to admit."

"I know. I'm just. . . ." She blew out a deep breath. "I guess I'll have to learn to deal with it."

He reached for the door. "You might be surprised to find a few of the young men are looking at you the same way."

" _Me?_ " She blushed at that, and Charles laughed. Then, he patiently while she retrieved his wheelchair. Inside, he gave his name to the hostess and followed her and Anne to their table. The restaurant was nice, much nicer than the cafe where Anne and Rachel shared their lunches. And Anne slipped into her seat with as much grace as she always possessed. Then, she slipped off her brown blazer, and Charles's brain short circuited.

 _How_ did she manage to look so amazing in something as simple as an orange halter top?

She clearly did not understand what watching her hair fall across her shoulders did to him. Rather than giving him a moment to re-start his brain, she met his eyes. "So, you were at the White House in January."

"I was." He frowned at his menu. His thoughts were still cluttered with the revelations several students gave him, from the girls to the young man in the back of the room. Anne hadn't helped with her outfit, though she obviously had no idea how difficult it was to focus on a coherent sentence. "As I said, I was trapped under some scaffolding for a time."

"How'd you get out?"

Charles knew the question was coming, and he still hadn't fully prepared an answer. Now, he tried to shrug it off. "You've seen the reactions of people to my. . .situation. Some pity me, others try to help with _everything_. I guess that was what happened with the guy who attacked the President."

Anne stared at him, her brown eyes obviously skeptical. But she didn't call him on the outright lie. It was part of what Charles wanted to tell her, but he could see she wasn't quite ready for that. Instead, she studied her menu. "You know, I never really gave the whole 'mutant issue' a lot of thought."

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch her attention. "And now?"

"Now, I don't know." She set the menu aside, folding her arms across the table and lowering her voice. "I know what it's like to not be acceptable, to be kicked out by your family and ostracized because of a decision you made. To be done that way because of _who_ you are. . . ." She shook her head. "Frankly, I don't want to imagine it."

"But it does happen." _And worse_ , Charles added silently.

"I guess I can understand a little of what people like them go through." She missed the tension in his shoulders, how he felt as if he hung on every word she spoke. "I mean, _all_ they want is to live, to survive and not be hunted for something they can't control. It's no better than what happened to lead up to Civil Rights or Suffrage or any other social development. I have no control over whether or not I'm born as a woman or a man, and to be discriminated against because of that is. . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she frowned. "Why are you laughing?"

Charles couldn't help it. She'd become so animated, so _forceful_ that he'd sensed her frustration and righteous indignation against the injustices of society. "I'm sorry, love. It's just. . . .You are. . . ." He finally gained control over his laughter, lowering his voice and leaning forward. "You're right. But seeing you so fired up about it was. . . ."

"Amusing?"

"No." He spotted their waitress heading their way and sent a brief telepathic suggestion to check on a few more tables before approaching. He wanted to finish this conversation with Anne. "More like captivating."

Anne blinked slightly and glanced away. "You shouldn't say stuff like that."

"Why not? Especially if it's true." Charles reached for her hand, forcing her to look at him. "You are just as enchanting now as you were the other day when you first wore that red dress. And more so, because you have a way of making your eyes spark when you're irritated. Part of me wants to see it more often, but the other part of me wants to make sure you are never irritated at _me_."

She looked at their hands then, her face heating and a smile teasing the corners of her lips. "Thanks," she mumbled a moment later.

Knowing he'd embarrassed her—and feeling a tad embarrassed himself—Charles went back to studying his menu. He hadn't meant to have that particular tidbit slip out, and he reminded himself that he needed to keep things friendly. But Anne's words about mutants gave him hope. Because of her past and her choices in life, she had endured things that made her sympathetic to mutants. But that didn't stop his questions. Could she truly accept them? Could she accept _him_ , knowing what he could do was outside the realm of what most considered possible? Or would she be like almost every other human, fearful of just how much power he truly held? Not for the first time, he wished he could just read her mind. It would prevent all of these questions and help him feel a little less out of control.

Anne, however, had no idea of what went through his head. She smiled when the waitress came, gave her order, and listened while Charles ordered his meal. Then, she looked him in the eye. "Going back to the original topic. Mutants might have abilities that are frightening, but not one of them asked for them. To hold that against them is wrong. And, as much as I had very little choice in what I've done, I can still say that the decision was ultimately mine. These mutants didn't have that courtesy given to them, and hunting them and fearing them for what they may or may not do is just as wrong as a strange man walking up to me now and propositioning me."

Charles chuckled at that for several reasons. First of all, her eyes were sparking again. However, her words stirred such a visceral reaction in his gut that he couldn't help reacting in some way. Laughing was better than growling, though Beast did that quite well. Charles suspected he'd fall far short of the intimidating, angry sound he wanted to make. In the short time that he'd known about Anne's past, he had done everything in his power to keep from reminding her of it. However, it obviously shaped who she was and how she thought, and he could not stop the instinctive urge to lash out. The men who had done that to her were long gone, and God help any other that tried to proposition her now.

His chuckle faded, and he leaned forward slightly, choosing to mimic her pose. "Anne, if any man—mutant or otherwise—ever propositions you and I find out about it, I will find a way to hurt them." _More like obliterate their minds._ "This chair will not hold me back. That said, what happened to you was a series of choices taken from your hands. And when you had the chance, you left that mess behind. It does not define you and it _should not_ define you. As for the mutants, you're right. But, like you have to work to accept and overcome what happened in your past, they have to struggle to accept who they are at the very core of their being. That's not something that happens overnight, nor is it easily done in a world where these super-powered beings are feared because of what they _might_ do." Charles was grateful he managed to get through that without a verbal slip. He'd almost used personal pronouns to include himself, and he was only just learning how Anne felt about mutants in general.

Choosing a different tact, he picked up his water glass and studied it. "What would you say if, at the end of class one day, one of those girls you were so irritated at walked up to you and admitted they'd been living and supporting themselves on the streets?"

Anne's eyes flew to his, her mouth opening and closing while she thought about it. Finally, she lifted her chin. "I would do what was done for me: give them a safe place and every opportunity to escape. A job if that's what I could provide, a home if I could, and encouragement to better themselves. But it's more than that, Charles. There's a _mind set_ that goes along with working the streets. These girls are human beings, but they're demoralized so many times just because they feel like they can only do one thing. That they're _good_ at only one thing. And the things that men ask them to do are. . . ." She shuddered. "I'm not a good person, Charles. No matter what you might think of me. And I have to live with that."

Charles took a moment to consider her words. "Now you know how mutants feel. All they want is a _chance_. And, many times, these mutants are demoralized, de- _humanized_ , and made to feel like science experiments. Just as humiliating as it was for you to endure life on the streets, it is the same for them."

"This isn't some intellectual conversation for you, is it?" Anne frowned. "This is your passion."

"It is." Charles met her eyes, thinking about Angel, Emma, and what little he'd seen in Raven's mind. "Just as much as discussing what happened years ago is no intellectual conversation for you. The situations are quite different, but the results are the same. And a large number of mutants out there feel just as objectified and helpless as you once did."

Anne stared at him for a long moment and then sighed. "You're probably right."

"Probably?"

She frowned. "Charles, it just. . . .I haven't told anyone about what happened in so long that having it known feels like I should expect it to happen again."

"And now you know how these mutants feel."

"You know them!" Her eyes widened at the realization.

"A few, yes." He chuckled. "I'm a geneticist, Anne. If anyone is going to be able to find a cause for this or a way to help those who are out of control, it's someone like me."

She stared at him for a long moment and then hummed. "I guess I should have realized that." She shook her head, falling silent when the waitress delivered their meal and refilled their water. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for lunch to turn into this."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "There are things about ourselves that both of us have never told another person. Or, if we have, we've been burned in the past. Having a discussion about it over lunch is better than letting it build until we explode at one another." He picked up his fork, smirking as he did so. "And, frankly, I'd rather come away from this feeling like I can still ask you to join me for lunch after our next class than wondering what I said that was wrong."

She smiled at him, and he let the topic change. But she was thoughtful, a good place for her to be at the moment. Genetic mutation was his specialty, his _life_ , and he so desperately wanted her to understand why he became so passionate about an "intellectual conversation." But, just as she was not ready to tell him about her past when she had, he could not bring himself to admit the truth. Not until she had the time to absorb that mutants were closer to her than what even she believed.

It wasn't until they'd returned to the house that something else she'd said finally caught up to him. She had just slipped past him, saying something about changing her shoes, when he caught her wrist. She waited patiently until he tugged her into a chair against one wall, putting them on the same eye level. Then, he sighed. "You said something at the restaurant, Anne. Something I want to address right now."

Her expression shifted slightly, showing a bit of uncertainty. "O—okay."

He deliberately took her hand in his, lowering his voice and looking her in the eye. "What happened to you will _never_ happen again. Not while you're living under my protection. I understand that it's a new experience for you to have it known, but every man in this house—and every man that comes into this house—will not so much as think of touching you without your permission." He considered his next words for just a moment and then decided to plunge on. "And, quite frankly, to have it thrown at me every time we discuss something of any depth is. . .infuriating. You're a beautiful woman, Anne, and one I happen to care for a great deal. I want you to understand what all of us—myself, Hank, and Alex—see, not what others have tried to make you."

She blinked at him, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm sorry. I guess. . . .I should be over this by now."

"This isn't something to overcome in a week or a month." He reached out and touched her face, brushing her hair away from her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. As he did so, his fingers brushed her temple, and he gained a slight glimpse into her mind. _Another blasted weakness_ , he thought as he tried to blink his discovery away. "But, just as you won't let me sit around and feel sorry for myself because I'm in a wheelchair, I refuse to let you limit yourself and keep yourself from pursuing what you want because of what happened in your past."

She looked away, her tears falling and smudging the light makeup she'd chosen to wear for the day. "Charles, I want to believe you. But. . . ."

He dropped his hand, waiting until she looked up at him in spite of her tears. "Sometimes, belief is a choice, not an emotion." He smiled slightly. "And so is hope."

She nodded, and her jaw worked as she regained control over her emotions. Then, she gave him a wry glance. "When did you become so wise?"

He laughed, as she'd intended. "Oh, I wouldn't say that's wisdom. That's just. . .life."

A few minutes later, she left him in the hallway with a thoughtful expression on his face. Charles watched her round the corner, still knowing she was blissfully unaware of how she appeared. But this stage of any relationship, when attraction turned into a greater awareness that led to time spent and intimacies shared, was always a dangerous one. He knew that. He'd experienced it with Moira and had been completely unaware of how blessed he had been at the time. He had never expected to share that again, let alone with a woman like Anne. She had her own struggles in her past, and she still did not see her own worth.

Smiling slightly at the quick revelation he'd seen in her mind, Charles forced himself to head for his bedroom and the motorized wheelchair. Getting around in it was a little easier, and it gave him a reason to be alone for a moment. When he'd brushed her temple, he had heard Anne's rather pointed thoughts. _Just kiss me and get it over with!_

 _You have_ _no_ _idea how badly I want to,_ he thought as if carrying on a conversation with her. _But neither of us are ready, and we will only end up hurt._ He knew where they would find themselves if that line was crossed that day. Or even that week. The first time he kissed Anne would be special, but he would need a lot more control than he had at the moment. _But,_ he thought, continuing his inner conversation, _if we ever get to that point in our relationship, it will not be because of what you can offer me. It will be because we are_ _both_ _ready to move beyond what we have now. Because we trust one another to never take an unfair advantage. The past will simply be there, nothing more than history and not something that defines us._

He just hoped he would not do something foolish before she was ready to accept that he could love her for who she was and not what she could do.

~TBC


	21. Chapter 21

Friday morning arrived before Anne was ready. She rose, fixed their breakfast, brewed tea, and tried to treat it like any other day. So what that a group of college students were coming here for their lab that day? It wasn't like they were moving in, and she had plenty of rooms where she could just disappear if she got too crowded.

Charles saw how having strangers in the house affected her, and he did his best to ensure that she would be okay. Anne had nodded and gone about her business. But she couldn't stop the questions. How would the house appear? She knew first impressions were paramount to success, and her first impression of this place had been horrible. Thankfully, she was able to change that. But how much? And what would they say if they discovered that she _lived_ here? Never mind that Charles was disabled and technically her boss. Everyone saw the relationship between them, and Charles had actually called her "love" in class the other day. It had been a moment when Anne wanted to strangle him and laugh at the startled expressions on the students' faces. Obviously they did not realize that it was a common endearment from England. Charles had looked just as startled, and Anne chose not to comment.

He had done a phenomenal job on Wednesday of tying the current media hype surrounding mutants into his lesson, using it to illustrate the science they all struggled to understand. And Anne had been unable to listen without her mind wandering back to Monday. Their conversation at lunch had been eye-opening, and she had spent hours thinking about mutants and how they related to her own past. She didn't like what she saw when she compared herself.

She had been so certain he would kiss her on Monday, and she wanted him to. But, after the emotion of the day bled off in the form of a spectacular crying jag that evening, she found herself grateful he hadn't. Charles had a way of looking at her, of admiring her without making it seem like he was mentally undressing her. She recognized the speculative gleam in his eye whenever he saw her in a new outfit, and she knew he clearly wanted to do more than simply hold her hand. But he refused to treat her as an object, and it left her wanting more.

Still, he'd been right. She had refused to let him sit around moping, and she grew angry when he threw the wheelchair into conversation as an excuse. She had spent her first weeks in this house working to make certain he knew without any shadow of a doubt that he was not less of a man because of that chair. Yet, when her own past became known, she suddenly viewed herself as a lesser woman because of what she had done. Yes, it had been horrible. Yes, it had scarred her mind and heart. But it did not _define_ her, not the way she had allowed it. Charles calling her on that had been as powerful as the night she finally admitted to him what she had done in the past.

Changing the way she thought of herself was difficult. But Anne found strength every time Charles smirked at her or held her hand or did something that made her feel like she was the most unique woman in the world. She wanted to understand how he did so and knew that her own emotions probably played a huge role in that. But watching him out of the corner of her eye as she played the piano, seeing the trouble he went to make certain he could stand being in his wheelchair for long lengths of time, and feeling the acceptance that he somehow projected as he studied and simply listened to her music. . . .That, as much as anything else he did, soothed her rattled mind.

The doorbell echoed through the house, and Anne forced her thoughts into a box labeled "Charles" while she walked toward the door. She found the young man who had slouched in the corner of the room standing outside, looking rather uncertain. He gave her a relieved look. "Miss Conrad! I thought I had the wrong address."

She stepped back and let him in the house, not at all surprised or offended when he gawked. "Welcome to Professor Xavier's home."

"More like a mansion." He blinked and then realized that he'd been staring. "I'm James. My friends call me Jamie. I'm meeting the Prof a little early today."

"It's nice to meet you, Jamie." Anne discreetly checked the clock on the wall and realized he was at least thirty minutes ahead of the rest of the crowd. "Let me take you to the lab. Professor Xavier is already there."

Jamie nodded and followed her up the stairs, his eyes as round as hers had been the first time she started cleaning the house. It was an awe-inspiring place, and it had taken several days before she felt like she could do more than just clean. Now, she was as comfortable in this home as she had ever been in any other place. Perhaps more so.

Charles sat behind a desk he'd set up in the lab, studying his lesson plans, when Anne escorted Jamie inside. He smiled in welcome, motioning Jamie to a chair near his desk. "Good morning."

"Hey." Jamie glanced between them before turning to Charles. "Can I talk with you, Prof? Just. . . .you?"

Anne took the hint. She met Charles's eyes. "I'll wait downstairs. The rest of the students should be here within the hour."

"Thank you, Anne." Charles said it in a way that she knew he appreciated her discretion. She left the lab, closing the door and sighing deeply.

This was it. This was the day she realized that her home could be invaded by students. And, not for the first time that week, she wondered if there was a way that she and Charles could use their experiences to help other young people. If so, then surely this day was a start, though she could not figure out why she would think that. She just knew the hope that had started growing in her heart over the last several days and, in spite of her apprehension at having her secret known by more than Charles and his little family, she couldn't help wondering just how wonderful that would be.

~oOo~

Charles knew why Jamie had come to him. He had seen it the first time the young man thanked him, had been startled by the revelation, and had not mentioned anything about it. But the conversation in class about mutation created such a tension in Jamie that he hoped nothing too explosive would happen.

Looking directly at his student, he waited. When Jamie struggled to get started, he smiled. "What can I do for you?"

"You really believe in mutants?"

"I do."

"Why?"

That question had so many answers. He could have quoted statistics, spouted theory, or any number of things. Instead, Charles chose to use the one that would help Jamie the most. "Because I am one."

Jamie's mouth flopped open. He stared for a moment and then straightened, glancing over his shoulder. "Does Miss Conrad know?"

"No." Charles thought about Anne, about watching her come down the stairs that morning just before he boarded the elevator to get up to his lab. She had been so elegant, her long skirt dragging the staircase behind her, and he had been hard pressed to keep from staring. "I plan to tell her when the time is right." _If the time is ever right._

Jamie shifted in his chair. "You think she'll be okay with it?"

"I don't know." Charles leaned forward. "Jamie, you are safe here."

The younger man laughed. "Yeah. I've heard that one before."

Charles touched his temple, focusing on communicating only. _I understand what has been done to you. I've seen it done to too many others. But this place—this house—is meant to be a haven for others like us._

Jamie's face paled as he realized that Charles had not actually spoken. "You knew the other day!"

"I did." Charles tilted his head to one side. "But it was not my place to say anything. I've done that before, and it ended badly."

All at once, the tension in Jamie's shoulders went out of him. He hung his head and laughed, a relieved sound that coupled with a wave of vindication. "I thought it was just me! Until January. But I never really had any clue that others like me—us—could exist."

Charles remembered this same reaction in Erik and smiled. "You're not alone, Jamie."

Jamie nodded. "So, you. . .what? Read minds?"

"Among other things." Charles sat back in his chair. "I can tell you what almost every person in the classroom is thinking at any given time."

"Not everyone?"

"No. Miss Conrad wears a device designed to keep me out of her head."

"You really like her."

Was it so bloody obvious? Charles smiled at that. "Yes, I do. But, when we are in the classroom, she is my assistant." He wanted to ask what Jamie's powers were, but he waited. He suspected they were mental in nature, but he had not gone prying through Jamie's mind. It was cluttered with fear and everything a young man new to college thought about, as well as the fog of drugs. Charles understood this stage in life. He'd been there, some of it recently. But drugs and women were not the answer, not for the struggle that mutants faced.

Jamie finally slouched in his chair. "I can. . . .I don't know how to explain it. It's like I can trick people's bodies into feeling things. Pain, for instance. Or like they're on fire. An itch they can't control. It's like I just know where to apply the pressure to get them to respond the right way." He shrugged. "I call it bio-manipulation."

Charles's smile widened. He was not so removed from Oxford that he couldn't see the potential in that. "That has to be fun."

"It is." Jamie grinned. "I found out about it one day when I was partying with friends. One guy got drunk and wouldn't take no for an answer. Just before the girl slapped him, he reacted like someone had just kicked him in the. . .butt." He shrugged. "Exactly what I'd been wanting to do."

Charles appreciated Jamie changing the word he had been about to use. "And now?"

"Now, I use it when I need to." He slouched even further in his chair when someone knocked on the door. "Thanks, Prof," he said as Anne peeked into the room and then admitted several more students.

Charles nodded sagely, understanding the need for appearances. "You're welcome." He narrowed his eyes, forcing himself not to touch his forehead. _And we can talk later. Call me, and we can set up some meetings to help you learn more about your abilities._

Jamie gave him a startled glance, and then nodded ever so slightly. But he sat up a little straighter, and Charles felt a tiny bit of confidence come into his mind.

Within fifteen minutes, the lab filled with students there to work on that week's assignment, and Charles saw how Anne settled into a chair in the back corner of the room. But his mind constantly returned to Jamie and his struggle to find acceptance. He had taken this job of teaching a college course because he needed to get out of the house, to interact with people, and to make Anne happy. Instead, he found what could possibly be one of the first students for his school. The excitement that caused surprised him, and he fought to keep it under control long enough to get through the lab.

~oOo~

The next two weeks passed quickly. Summer faded to autumn, and the garden began losing its vibrancy. Anne loved this time of year. Whenever she wasn't cooking, cleaning, or assisting Charles with school, she escaped to the gardens to knit or read. Charles occasionally joined her, and those days were her favorites. They walked the paved paths, made plans to visit local farmer's markets, and discussed his teaching schedule. When he didn't, she used the time to think.

She was being childish. That realization hit fairly quickly, as did her reasons for it. She hid it well, but she hated how often she actually resented Charles's students. Jamie appeared two to three times a week, and Anne did her best to let him and Charles work. He had truly become Charles's protege, and it did her heart good to see Charles so invested in another person. But she missed her time with him. More than once, she wished she could simply interrupt when he and Jamie were secluded in his study, sitting in a corner and knitting while watching Charles do what he loved. He had flourished with someone needing his time and efforts, and Anne wished he saw that she still needed him.

But she kept quiet and left the study to him. She and Charles usually worked in the library, preferring the table that sat beneath large windows, where both of them could look over the gardens. And, in the evenings, Charles either prepared for his next class or read a book. Things had changed from the times they would play a game or simply talk over her knitting. She often felt him watching her from the front of the class, and she almost asked if they could play chess. At least she'd feel a little like he hadn't forgotten her.

 _You're being ridiculous._ Her thoughts somehow took on his voice. _You're a grown woman, and you knew his teaching position would take a lot of his attention._

 _But I wish he'd just. . . ._

 _Notice you?_ Her inner conversation made her squirm. _Be like he was before, when he was so needy that he depended on you and Hank for everything? Wasn't the point of your job to get him to be_ _independent_ _? You're looking at the successful completion of your purpose for coming here, never mind the issues_ _you've_ _faced along the way. Can you not be happy for him?_

Anne didn't have an answer. She truly wanted to be happy for Charles, to accept that this was the life he'd chosen. He had always been an academic, and teaching was just an extension of his innate curiosity and need to understand his world. And he had opened a school at one point, yet another sign that his life had been devoted to learning and teaching.

 _But what about people? What about me?_

She shook the thoughts away, returning to the kitchen to finish their evening meal.

Charles was aware of her conflict, though he didn't quite understand all of it. She saw it in how he watched her slip out of a room and the few times he opened his mouth as if to ask if she would be alright. Anne wished he would, but he usually let out a sigh of irritation and let her go.

Finally, as September faded toward October, Anne had had enough. She had just finished dusting the music room and had watched Jamie bid the "Prof" a smiling farewell. The young man had flourished under Charles's attention, much like Anne once felt she had. And, while she was happy to see Jamie doing so well, she wanted to find a place to fit. All at once, she was no longer a nurse, no longer an assistant, or a housekeeper, or a cook. She was a woman who wanted to know that she was valued.

Taking a deep breath, she sat aside her dust rag and walked over to the study. Jamie had left the door open, and she saw Charles sitting behind his desk, writing notes in a small leather-bound notebook. A cup of tea sat near his right hand, and he looked completely at peace.

She knocked on the open door. "Got a minute?"

Charles glanced up from his notes. "Anne." He finished his thought and set his pen aside, marking his place in the book and closing it. "What's on your mind?"

Anne hated the sensation of walking into the principal's office. But, wasn't that what this place was? Charles had once been the headmaster of his own school, and he had obviously used this study then. She took a deep breath and headed for the Queen Anne couch he'd pulled from an upstairs bedroom. The blue and gold brocade shone in the late afternoon sun, and the dark wood of the couch fit with the rest of his study. It was regal and intimidating.

Charles watched her move, his smile of welcome fading as he did so. He backed away from his desk and rolled toward her, his face shifting to concern. "Anne?"

She took another breath and then met his eyes. "I'm sorry. I just. . . ." She shrugged. "I thought I was ready for classes to begin, but. . . ."

His concern faded slightly. "You're feeling a little crowded."

"A bit." Anne latched on to that topic. "Charles, it's more than that, though. Before, it was just us. Me, you, Hank, and Alex. Now, it feels like every moment is wrapped up in classes. You're either teaching or planning, we grade papers together, and Hank spends most of his time in his lab. The only times we see Alex are at suppertime, and even then he's on his way out the door." She shook her head. "I know school keeps all of us busy, and I know Alex works long hours. But. . . .This feels like the family you like to talk about is falling apart, and I don't like it."

Charles listened, his eyes narrowed as she spoke. It didn't portray anger, though. No, he was thinking over what she said. "It has been a while since we just played a game, hasn't it?"

Anne laughed at that. "You don't know the times I've almost asked you to play _chess_." He was well aware of her opinion on that game, just like she knew that he did not care for Scrabble. Her smile faded. "It's more than that, Charles."

"Okay." He leaned slightly forward in his chair, a sure indication that he wanted _out_ of it, and waited.

She felt her face heat, and she turned to look around the study. "I feel. . . .I feel pretty childish right now." She blinked, surprised when tears started gathering in her eyes. "It's just that. . . .Never mind." She pushed to her feet. "I need to handle this on my own."

"Anne." Charles reached out and managed to snag her hand when she tried to slip away.

She stared at him, surprised at the open acceptance on his face. But she couldn't let the tension out of her shoulders. "Charles, I came here in a bit of a temper tantrum, if you must know. I'm being selfish and wishing that I could have my friend back."

"I've never left, Anne."

"No, and yes." She sat back down when he tugged on her arm and watched while he finally transferred from his wheelchair to the other end of the couch. "Charles, this is your life. You're a teacher, someone who needs to invest in others to be happy. And I can accept that. And I appreciate it. But. . . ."

"But I've forgotten you in the process." His words, though soft, finished her sentence. His expression spoke of surprise and actual regret. "You're right."

Anne stared. "That's not what I was going to say."

"No, but it's what I needed to hear." He turned to her, then. "I made you a promise, Anne. That you would always have a place here, a place to be yourself. Yet, when classes began, I allowed my own desires to take over."

"That's just it, Charles." She sighed. "I don't want to limit you at all, I just want. . . ."

He waited for her to finish, and then tilted his head. "What is it, Anne?" His question, so gently spoken, shook some things loose in her mind, and she finally saw what was bothering her.

She looked at her hands and then back to him. "I just want to be a part of it," she said. "I want to be more than an assistant who enters grades in the grade book or is there to pass out papers. You have a purpose, a _reason_ for what you do. And, while I thought I did, I guess I don't anymore. Not since I left my last job."

He took a moment to study her. She knew that he didn't fully understand everything going on in her mind. That little trick of his had changed a while ago. Before, he had seemed to know everything she would say before she said it. Now, she could surprise him. She liked to think that it was simply the years that had passed, but something else had changed. And she couldn't figure it out.

Finally, he spoke. "You want acceptance."

Anne closed her eyes at that word. Of course he'd be able to take all of her emotions, all of her tangled thoughts, and boil them down into three words.

He leaned forward and took her hand in his, this time squeezing in that warm grip that never failed to make her heart rate jump a little higher. "You are always welcome, no matter what I am doing. And, frankly, I wish you would be there. But that is not my decision. It's not just about what _I_ want as much as you. Granted, Jamie has asked that his tutoring be kept between us. But, other than that, you are welcome to interrupt any time you wish."

She hated this moment. He had just given her everything she hadn't said, everything she'd missed about the last few weeks, but it was not enough. It wasn't what she truly desired, no matter how she tried to make it about whether he accepted her or not. She wanted to accept _herself_. "That's not what I want, Charles." She held up a hand when he sat back in his chair and gave her a rather frustrated look. "Just hear me out."

His expression didn't change.

Anne buried her face in her hands. "You just so easily accept me. Jamie. Hank. Alex. I'm sure if one of those girls who thinks they can seduce you came in here, you'd accept her, as well." She grinned at the image of one particular young lady trying to seduce Charles, failing, and still finding that he wanted her to be a part of his class. "I guess it's not as much about me wanting to be accepted by _you_. It's about me wanting to accept _myself_."

The next few moments passed in absolute silence, broken only by the grandfather clock in the library. Charles watched her closely, and Anne kept her face covered. How had she missed something so vital? How had she managed to project all of her feelings of rejection onto him? For years, she had craved the knowledge that she was valuable, that she had someone's love just because she was alive. But her parents had never seen the value in a little girl, and her father only smiled when she told him she wanted to go to Oxford and become a lawyer like he was. Then came Franklin and the streets and nursing school. By the time she arrived on Charles's doorstep, she had buried this one desire so deeply that it had taken months for Charles to uncover it. And, even then, he hadn't said anything and let her work out her own thoughts in her time.

That, more than anything, showed that he valued her. That he understood how her mind worked and had patiently waited for her to make her own realizations.

Sitting back in the couch, Anne flushed and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I barged in here wanting vindication, and I never realized that my problem wasn't yours to deal with."

He smiled, genuine relief covering his face. "As thankful as I am to know I haven't done anything wrong, I'm glad I could help."

She returned the grin. "I kind of made it your fault, though."

"We all need times when we can talk through our problems." Charles leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his legs. "But, Anne, as much as we all want to accept ourselves, sometimes we need a little help." He looked around. "You coming here helped me a great deal, but so does teaching. Through teaching, I'm able to be around others in a controlled environment, deal with their pity and the questions and know that I still have a refuge where I can retreat should it become too much." He shrugged. "Granted, a community college might not have been the best way of going about it, but it has helped me. I'm remembering who I am, and I'm actually liking this person."

"I don't have that." Anne met his eyes. "I mean, I'm happy here. More happy than I've ever been, truth being told. But all I do here is clean, cook, help you. . . .While I love it here and love helping, I can't stop the feeling that I could be doing _more_. Just like you chose to teach because you needed to take that next step, I have the same urge to do so. But I have _no_ idea what to do!"

He thought that over and then turned back to her. "I can't help you with that, Anne. Unfortunately, that's going to be something you have to decide." He smiled. "But, when you do figure it out, come talk to me about it. Because I will do everything in my power to see it happen." Then, he held up a finger. "And, before you protest, that includes financial support."

Anne felt her eyes widen and knew they probably would have popped out of her head if they hadn't been attached. "Charles, that's not what I'm asking for! You don't have to _finance_ me or my ideas! I just. . . ." She glared at him when he started laughing.

"You really have no idea the kind of money I make, do you?" The question came out somewhat arrogant, but she knew he had not intended to sound that way. In fact, when he turned to her, his expression was direct and resolute. "It's not about the money, Anne. Never was. And, frankly, I can finance a _dozen_ schools and still live comfortably. But I would rather see those funds go into something that will affect lives _you_ care about rather than sitting in my bank account."

Anne stared. She had known for a very long time that Charles Xavier was rich. But knowing it, seeing it, and hearing him talk about it were all three very different things. She had _known_ in Oxford. When she began cleaning his house, she _saw_ it. Now, he _talked_ as if the money was simply a fact of life. And it was for him. Anne, however, had struggled for every dime she received, and she could not so easily invest in a project that might cost him thousands of dollars just to fail.

But he would have done so had she asked. And that realization startled her. "Let's hold off on talking about money," she said softly. "Because that's not the point of this conversation."

He gave her wry glance. "If it was any other person, Anne, I would have already lost track of the point of this conversation."

She rolled her eyes at him. But he was right. She had come in here angry and hurting and wanting to lash out at him. Instead, she ended up realizing a few things about herself. "Sorry."

"Don't be." He sat back in the couch, his arm stretched across the back of it. "I meant what I said. I will support you no matter what you do or don't do."

Anne nodded. "Thanks." Then, she stood and left him alone, her thoughts in a whirl. The conversation, while cathartic, had not gone how she had hoped. She had been given exactly what she wanted when she entered his study, but it felt hollow compared to what she realized. And nothing would ever take the place of accepting herself if she was never able to find a way to do that.

Just how was she supposed to accept something about herself that she hated? She made her way back to the music room, their evening meal forgotten as she began to aimlessly play a tune on the piano. For once, Charles didn't join her, and she was actually thankful. She didn't need him in the room with her while she tried to do something that very few people in her life had done.

She supposed accepting herself began with acknowledging what she had done and what had happened. And she had. But it had become a stumbling block, something that she used to keep Charles at a distance or to explain why she didn't like something. It had worked thus far, and Anne felt every lonely moment when Charles looked as if he wanted more from her. But she couldn't give it. . . .Could she? Could she push past this moment, see herself for what she had been, and realize that she was no longer that woman? Could it simply be a part of her past?

Charles thought so. But Anne had no idea _how_. How did she let go of the past? Was it in finding a cause and investing in it? Was it in looking at Alex and seeing how much pain he still had buried after the war? Was it in seeing Charles wheeling around his house?

Or was it nothing more than a decision?

 _Sometimes, belief is a choice, not an emotion. And so is hope._

It couldn't be that simple! Not when the past had so deeply hurt her that it took everything from her just to remember it! But she had remembered, and Charles had been there to pick her up. He had let her feel the pain, remember the wounds, be slightly bruised, and still saw her as a woman worth his time. And Alex. . . .In spite of everything he had gone through, he refused to ask her about her past. But he still hugged her when she needed a brother. Hank, even, with his pragmatic ways and social awkwardness, treated her as a professional. An equal. The only person in this strange little family that still held Anne accountable for her past decisions was herself.

 _Okay._ The piano music stopped as she felt her hands fall still. _That stuff happened. But who are you now? Who are you going to become?_

She had so many desires for who she wanted to be. Many of them centered on the man in the study. He was more than simply an employer or a friend. But she also had desires that weren't just about Charles. She wanted to be a woman of integrity. A woman who cared for other people. A woman who saw below the mask that some put up to realize that they had hurts and wants of their own.

Suddenly, several images came to mind. She saw herself leaving her job, reporting the ethical violations, and testifying when everything in her had screamed to get back to Westchester and the patient she left there. She wanted to cry again when she pictured herself in the music room the night of Charles's relapse, grieving for what he had gone through. She pictured Rachel sitting across from her the day of their shopping trip, a genuine smile in place as she laughed at a joke without worrying about impressing anyone. More images came, times with Hank and Alex and students in the classroom. Anne couldn't tell where they came from, but they gave her an answer that she had been seeking for a very long time.

And, with them, came peace. Not a momentary thing that faded when the next crisis hit. She simply breathed for once in her life and managed to look around her. _This is who I am_ , she thought. _Not a prostitute, not a plaything to be beaten, not just a housekeeper or cook._ She looked out the window, seeing the light rain that fell. And, for the first time, didn't have to walk in it to let it refresh her. Instead, she rose and watched, her mind resting and her decision made.

~oOo~

In his study, Charles watched the rain falling outside. It was cool, the draft that crept through old windows leaving a damp chill in the house that would make for a delightful evening in front of the fire.

Anne's inner desires affected him deeply. They weren't sexual in any way, primarily because her needs weren't of a physical sort. She'd had enough of fulfilling those basic physical desires to last her a lifetime, though the thought of it was not unwelcome. Anne's needs, however, were deeper, emotional, and so basic to her life that it hurt. Charles had come to realize that she had never known true acceptance. Everything in her life had taught her that she needed to be whom or what those around her wanted.

She was everything he wanted and more to him. But the task of living in today, letting the past be the past, and not worrying about the future. . .That was something only Anne was capable of doing. Just as he could not spend all his time pining for what he had lost. Instead, he could abide by his decision to keep things friendly and let her see her own worth. Maybe, if he was very lucky, she'd eventually find her way into his arms. But Anne didn't want his physical affection without his acceptance and approval, and that was one thing he could give her immediately.

An hour later, when he rolled into the kitchen where she served pizza she'd ordered, Charles saw the difference on her face. She smiled at him, a shy grin that indicated she was still embarrassed by her outburst in his study. But it was more than that. While Hank and Alex insulted one another back and forth, Anne stared out the window at the rain, peace covering her features with something more beautiful than a smile. Charles watched, a slight smile of his own in place.

This was what he lived for. This moment, when someone saw their value and accepted themselves, made life worth living.

~TBC


	22. Chapter 22

The next three weeks brought significant changes to the Xavier mansion. Anne woke every morning, looked at herself in the mirror, and took a deep breath. Then, as she dressed, she chose who she would be. The Saturday following her conversation with Charles, she visited the salon where she'd had her nails done the first time. With the manicure repaired and done in a darker shade of red, she returned to the house to continue her chores.

She had always heard about self-talk, a newfangled concept that psychologists were throwing around in the rehabilitation centers. And she had often thought it a little on the outrageous side. Why worry about what people are saying to themselves when there were more important things to consider? Like what they took that caused them to act the way they did. But, now, Anne understood. After her talk with Charles, she found herself telling her reflection every morning that she was not the woman she had been.

After three weeks, she was beginning to believe it.

Charles also noticed the changes. As the evenings grew cooler, he took to starting a fire in the fireplace and using the library as his study. It was a deliberate move on his part to set up where Anne could find him at any time. And she often did. Many times, they pushed his papers to one side to share in a game of chess or Scrabble. She was still terrible at chess, and he still disliked Scrabble. But he saw how she blossomed when he did something so simple as making time for her.

Jamie also flourished, though in a different sense. He showed up at the house late in the afternoon of their class days, often staying after the labs were finished on Fridays. During those days, Charles worked with the younger mutant, showing him that he could control his ability and even master it. Jamie and Alex finally met and hit it off, though Charles worried. Alex had yet to fully grieve for Sean and everything he saw in Vietnam, and Jamie had no concept of what it was like to serve his country.

As the weeks passed, however, Charles felt a change in his spirits as the seasons shifted. He noticed that he lapsed into silence more often, preferred to watch Anne knit as opposed to preparing for class the next day, and once found himself sitting alone in his bedroom, glaring at the autumn rain. The cooler weather had turned the trees into a riot of colors, and Anne had asked him to join her for a walk that morning. He had declined, saying he needed to finish grading papers.

But he knew the truth. The anniversary of his trip to Cuba was only a week away, and he was once again forced to accept reality. Even if Hank made more of the serum that treated his spine, he wouldn't take it. Not if it meant descending into depression and fog once again. He had classes to teach, had agreed to another semester of "Introduction to Genetics" as well as a follow-up class for his first semester students, and had Anne's smile to consider. And, every time he even so much as thought about taking the serum, he saw what Hank had shown him the night he relapsed: Anne standing in the music room, wearing a beautiful white gown, and crying.

So, he moped. He didn't call it that, preferring to tell Hank and Anne that he had a lot on his mind. And Hank, who had been on the beach that day, understood. He even whispered to Anne that the anniversary of Charles's injury was approaching, but Charles couldn't bring himself to speak about it. Not yet. Not when Anne had finally begun to heal from years of shame and regrets.

Five days before the anniversary of Cuba, Charles sat in his study, glaring at his notes on Jamie's progress. They had just discovered that the young man also had the ability to move things with his mind and had spent a rather enjoyable several hours testing the limits of Jamie's telekinesis. So far, they had found nothing outside of focus to limit him. Besides, Charles was fascinated. He had not seen anything similar outside of Erik's magnetism and wondered at the difference. Jamie wasn't limited to metal items, but he could move anything that he set his mind to move. But Charles didn't want to think about Jamie or even his work. He couldn't say what he wanted, but he admitted that he was miserable.

A knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts, and blinked when he saw Anne standing there with a tea tray in her hands. "Anne!"

She smiled at the way he said her name, something that Charles had noticed a lot more lately. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all." He hated that she still asked permission to enter his study. Moving away from the desk, he cleared a few papers from the coffee table so she could set the tea tray there. Then, he transferred from the chair to one end of the couch. "I'm actually happy you came. I'm too. . .what's the term kids are using these days? In my head?"

Anne smiled at him, the pleasure on her face obvious. "I'll be right back." She disappeared a moment later, leaving him blinking after her. She'd worn that distracting orange halter top again, and it still did funny things to him. Even though he knew to expect the random sprinkling of freckles across her back or how her shoulder blades moved beneath her skin, he still could not stop the desire to stare. Tonight, with the sun having already set and the fireplace in his office blazing, it seemed as if it added to her natural beauty, making her glow with more beauty than makeup could give her. She was at peace, her smile so genuine that he ached to have the same happiness.

When she reappeared, he actually laughed. She had found the chess set he usually took to England with him when he was in Oxford, a small thing meant to be placed on the bench seat of a car. Of course, his step-father had made certain that anything the Xavier family owned was elegant and upheld a certain appearance. But it reminded him of times with Raven and his youth.

Anne settled on the opposite end of the couch, her back to the door, as she began putting the ivory and ebony pieces in place. Charles knew what these chess pieces had cost and was thankful she hadn't yet realized that they were more valuable than her entire wardrobe. Though, at the moment, her clothing was topmost in his mind.

Shaking himself from his rather forward thoughts, Charles forced his mind to think about other things. Like tea. He knew how Anne liked her tea, and he could fix that while she calmly prepared to lose at chess. No matter how hard she tried, she just could not seem to come up with a strategy that bested him. But he appreciated her willingness to play a game she detested.

Within three moves, he realized Anne had not really wanted to play chess. She had simply chosen it because she knew he would indulge her. So, after taking one of her pawns and ignoring how she had left her queen open, he repositioned his legs on the couch to face her, one foot tucked under his opposite knee. It allowed him to prop his elbow on the back of the couch and brought them into closer proximity. Combined with the peaceful atmosphere, the fire, and the smaller chess set, it was enough to drive him to distraction.

But he had a question he wanted answered, and he had spent the last few weeks learning to control his thoughts. Otherwise, he would have already acted on his desires. "What's on your mind?"

She glanced up from the chess board, her eyes showing that she considered lying to him. But she didn't, straightening and then letting out a deep breath. "Remember the last time we talked in here?"

Charles grinned at that. They had talked about a great many things in recent weeks, spending hours discussing events in class and going over the "mutant issue," as it had become known among his students. He had listened closely to Anne's ideas about it, hearing how she often put herself in the position of these mutants and seemed to understand their desires to simply live. He firmly believed that her struggles to be accepted and loved had given her a unique way of viewing them.

But he distinctly remembered the last time they had talked in his study. He had been so frustrated when, after giving her what she seemed to be asking for, she turned the tables and told him that she _didn't_ want it. That had been the first moment in weeks that he felt like actually shouting at her to make up _his_ mind. But her realizations in the following moments had transformed how she viewed herself, and he loved seeing the confidence and assertiveness she displayed almost daily. "I remember."

"I've been thinking about what you asked me." She moved her queen out of check and then sat back to meet his eyes. "About what I want to do to help others."

"Oh?" Another quick move captured one of her rooks.

She nodded, studying the board and then moving a piece. "I want to help you re-open your school."

Out of everything she could have said, Charles did not expect _that_. He blinked up at her, his knight in his hand as he promptly forgot his latest move, his depression, and even his rather improper thoughts as far as Anne was concerned. "Excuse me?"

She smiled at him, her eyes peaceful and her expression resolute.

Charles set the knight to the side, knowing the game was officially over. "You do know that my school was not meant for the average student?"

She scoffed. "Charles, give me a little credit. You're passionate about mutants and their struggles, you wrote your thesis on genetic mutation, and you use the word 'gift' about as often as you use 'mutation' in relation to the topic." She shrugged. "I don't know what I could do to help, but I would love to see the school open again."

He thought over his next words, trying his hardest to figure out what to say. He had a lot he _wanted_ to say, but he had asked Anne to consider her options. And he had promised to help her with whatever she wanted. He had not, however, expected her to latch on to his dream. "Anne, look at me." He leaned forward, close enough he could get a vague sense of her emotions. "You're not telling me this because you think it's what I want, are you?"

A flash of irritation snapped at him, and her eyes sparked slightly. But it faded quickly as understanding covered her features. "No." She mimicked his pose, tugging her long skirt around her knees in a way that was both modest and alluring. "I've spent weeks thinking about this, Charles, and, as much as I want to help other women like me, I know there are programs out there. And I could add something to them, but I would simply be another set of hands in the field." She shook her head. "There are _no_ schools designed to assist mutants in accepting who and what they are. And, from what you tell me and what I can infer from my own experiences, most of them are feeling pretty alone and pretty frightened right now. Like me, they probably have no idea where to turn or who to trust, and it's going to take someone who understands that absolute terror to help them accept that they can be themselves here."

He listened closely, wanting to smile and cry and kiss her all in one moment. Somehow, she had identified his greatest dream—and his greatest failure—and made it seem like it was the best idea in the world. "You have no idea what losing the school did to me."

She narrowed her eyes. "You might be surprised, Charles."

Even he had to admit that last statement had probably been untrue.

She continued, "Besides, look at what you've done since then. Every person you've invited to live here with you has their own issues. Hank is awkward and socially inept, yet he finds that he can be himself here. Alex has Vietnam and all of his struggles there, and yet he smiles and seems happy here. And I. . . ." Her throat closed, and she took a big gulp of her tea. "The point is, people who need help come here, and you have the ability to give them hope. Shouldn't you use that to invest in those that you're passionate about helping?"

He stared at her, hardly able to form a coherent sentence. When he'd asked her to come up with a plan to help others, he had expected to start a trust fund for street girls who wanted to go to college, create jobs through Graymalkin Industries, or some other mundane thing. But Anne had clearly put a lot of thought into this topic, and she had chosen something that he would never have thought possible. She truly wanted to help _him_ , to see _his_ dream come true. "Anne, what about your own dreams?"

She met his eyes. "My dreams, Charles, don't include leaving this place." She flushed and looked away, her emotions so close to the surface that he didn't need to read her thoughts to know what went through her head. She had spent the last weeks watching him, and she had apparently picked up on little clues. It reminded him that she knew how to read men and likely wasn't as ignorant of how he felt as what he wanted to think. But he had done everything in his power to _not_ act on those desires even if she did know about them.

She confirmed his thoughts a moment later when she shifted slightly closer, the chessboard between them forgotten. "You know, I have spent the last few weeks wondering what would have happened if I met you first." Her eyes moved, and he realized she was looking at him in a different way than ever before—a way that made his blood boil. It urged him to ignore his decision to never push her into something she wasn't prepared to handle. She shrugged. "If Franklin had never been in the way."

Charles latched on to the memory of that man and what he had done to Anne. It cooled his blood and let him speak with a relatively calm tone. "That's in the past, love, and I don't know if. . . ."

"Would you have stayed friends with me?" Anne met his eyes then, her meaning clear.

But Charles had a different answer. "I would have been friends with you, yes." He hesitated slightly. "Though I probably would have kissed you by the time you told me your name."

She smiled at his answer, a tinge of pink coming to her features. Then, she looked him in the eye. "Charles, Franklin is no longer here."

Her meaning could not have been clearer, and Charles knew it. Besides, even if it hadn't, the way she leaned toward him would have told him exactly what she meant. What she _wanted_. With a smile playing around his lips, he met her halfway over the chessboard, the kiss careful and meant to be broken at a moment's notice. But he felt everything. He instantly knew how she wanted to melt, to push him back into the couch and take this to the next level.

Anne hummed against his lips, a smile on her features and her eyes closed when he pulled back. She opened her eyes, her breath mingling with his, and said, "I've been waiting over ten years for that."

Charles grinned. "Is that so?" Then, without giving her a chance to answer, he pulled her close with one hand behind her neck and truly kissed her.

She let out a deep sigh, and then he realized his mistake. By kissing her, he had managed to get _inside_ her shield. And he got an up-close look at everything she felt in those few moments. Every time she wished he would have kissed her, every time she imagined what would happen if he did, and everything she wanted to see between them mingled with his own desires and thoughts and promises to himself. For those few moments, his promise to not push her fled as quickly as his control, and he deepened the kiss, neither of them minding that the chess set got knocked off the couch when she shifted closer to him. His legs might have been dead weights now, but other parts of him responded when she slipped her arms around his waist, and he could not stop himself even if he'd tried.

Kissing Anne was everything he had wanted. And more.

Charles finally pulled back when the need to breathe overcame the rush of release and desire that had melded with hers until he could no longer tell which portion of their emotions belonged to him. He broke the kiss, inordinately pleased when she gasped and then leaned forward as if to capture his lips again. But that blasted control, as well as his reason for it, returned in those few seconds, and he leaned backward just enough to chuckle.

Anne blew out a quick breath, her voice low and rough when she spoke. "Charles. . . ."

He pushed his forehead against hers, enjoying the chance to be inside her mind as much as he loved the feel of her pressed to his side. "Trust me, love." He smiled when she blinked at his nearness, getting a startling and rather revealing idea of just how she felt about him, wheelchair and all. "I want more than this—and I _can_ do more. But this. . . ." He finally pulled his head back before her thoughts overrode his good sense. Without his forehead against hers, he felt as if he could get a little better grip on his reactions. "Anne, this isn't the past for me."

She leaned forward again, this time to press a soft kiss to his lips, lingering but not demanding. Finally, she pulled away from him just as he considered throwing caution to the wind. "The past is the past, Charles. I put it there every day when I wake up." She met his eyes. "This, between us, is what we have _now_."

He smoothed her hair away from her face, letting his fingers brush her temple and then down her jaw. He grinned when her eyes slipped closed as he ran a thumb over her lower lip. He wanted to take up her offer of herself, made unwittingly through her thoughts, but he pushed that away while he spoke. "Enjoy this, Anne." He made certain she was looking him in the eye when he said the next words. "Let yourself have this moment, the coming days, and explore whatever we share without a rush to get somewhere."

She narrowed her eyes. "Enjoy the journey? _That's_ what you say after you kiss me like that?"

Charles let out a laugh, seeing the irony of it. "Enjoy the moment." He let his hand drop from her face and sought out one of her hands, finding it lying over his heart, and then lacing their fingers together. "Enjoy every step along the way and live in that time. Because, eventually, the journey will change. What you want will happen if you want it, but. . . ." His voice trailed off when she shifted again, this time under his arm. Her move to curl into his side completely derailed what he had been saying.

She frowned up at him. "Forget your analogy?"

"Yes." He laughed with her. "You're rather distracting."

"Good." She dropped her head onto his shoulder. "Besides, you were getting a little too mushy."

"Oh, heaven forbid!" Charles rolled his eyes, smile in place. His monologue was a bit out of character for his normal reserved self, but Anne had a way of getting under that reserve. Not for the first time, he was grateful she had the ability to see below that front he put up for everyone else.

~oOo~

Anne let out a deep breath as she allowed herself grow accustomed to being held in Charles's arms. This wasn't about falling apart or letting him comfort her or anything that had happened in recent weeks. This was about the two of them, what they could share, and what she had seen once she started paying attention. She had always wondered what would happen if she just kissed him. Now, she knew.

And what a revelation it was! This man could leave her nearly begging for more with very little effort.

Now, though, her mind returned to a previous concern, one that had sent her to his study in the first place. Over the last week, he had changed slightly. She had asked Hank about it since it came so suddenly, and Hank had simply told her what the coming date meant. He had lost his legs. But the actual date shook a few details loose in her mind, namely the conflict that had concluded on the day Hank mentioned.

Charles squeezed her shoulders. "What's on your mind?"

Anne stared at his legs, limbs that he'd manually adjusted to make room for her to sit next to him. How did she ask about the date? It wasn't something that could be described in one moment, and this was still a sore subject for Charles.

But he had invited her to share her thoughts, so she forced herself to sit up. His hand ran along her shoulders, ruffling her hair in a delightful way, and she made certain to simply meet his eyes rather than pulling further away. "Hank said the anniversary of your injury is coming up."

"It is." He glanced over at his chair, eyes narrowed. "It's this way every October."

She waited until she realized he had nothing more to say. She drew in a breath to strengthen her resolve against what might be the biggest mood killer of the century. "Charles, I know what the date means. History is very clear."

He turned to her then, his blue eyes open but his expression troubled. "I know you know." He smiled, but it was sad. "And you have every right to wonder about those events. But that day was more than just the day the Cuban Missile Crisis ended—even if the blockade lasted nearly another month. It was also the day I lost my legs, my sister, and my best friend."

Anne stared at him. "Raven left when this happened?!" She could hardly believe that the sweet girl she'd known during their time in Oxford had turned her back on Charles.

"I let her go." He shrugged. "It was the best thing for both of us. She loved Erik and wanted to be with him."

Anne nodded. "I can understand that." Her meaning caught up to him a moment later, and she smiled when she saw it make an impact in his mind. "Charles, we all have these anniversaries, moments when the memories overwhelm us. The answer is not in being withdrawn and not allowing others to see how much we're hurting. It's to _feel_ the hurt, to acknowledge that some wounds will never fully heal, and to move on. Your legs, my past. . . .They're both wounds that shaped who and what we are. We can never be Charles Xavier or Anne Conrad without accepting them."

He held her gaze for a long moment. "I sense a 'but' in that statement."

"But," she said with a grin, "we can also learn to be Charles and Anne without that hovering over us."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "When did you become so wise?"

"I don't know." She shrugged and then settled back on the couch, letting his arm fall over her shoulders once again. "Probably about the time someone told me that belief is a choice. As is hope."

Hearing his laugh right under her ear did something to her. She slipped her arms around his waist, careful to keep her touch light. This moment, while comforting to her, was as much about helping him. Not the kiss. That kiss had been. . . ! She still couldn't find the right word to describe it. Overwhelming, addicting, provocative, passionate. . . .All of them worked, but none of them truly explained what it made her feel to know that she could inspire the same emotions in Charles that he did in her.

The grandfather clock in the library chimed the hour, and Anne realized that she needed to excuse herself. They had class the next morning, and it was going to be difficult enough to act as if nothing had happened with the memory of that kiss in her head. Especially when Charles gave her a raised eyebrow and meaningful smirk when she said so.

Still, he let her go after pulling her close for one final, lingering kiss. He kept it light, but Anne felt the restraint in his entire body. And she hated slipping out of his arms to go to her rooms that evening. But the smoldering look Charles gave her from where he still sat on the couch spoke loudly. She hurried upstairs with the memory of his touch and his unspoken promises floating around in her head. Then, closing the door behind her, she leaned against it and slowly slid to the ground.

 _How_ did he do that? _How_ did he manage to leave her a puddle of overheated goo with just one look? No matter the answer, Anne found she was more than happy to let him do so and, when she slipped into bed, she allowed herself to dream about a life with the man she loved.

~oOo~

Charles wanted to climb the walls. Or the stairs. Or even take a long run outside in the pouring rain. Granted, it wasn't raining at that moment and he couldn't run, but the night was cool enough that it might have calmed the thoughts racing through his head.

After Anne had left him thoroughly distracted from his sulking over the anniversary of Cuba, he had come directly to his rooms and climbed into a cold shower. And, for an hour or so, thought he'd managed to get control of his raging hormones. Kissing Anne, while not something he'd planned to do that evening, had proven yet again that not everything had been paralyzed by the bullet in his spine. His body's natural response to a beautiful woman worked well, and Anne had the ability to trigger that response by just being in the room. Having her pressed against him, no matter how innocent or sweet it had been, had produced some pretty intense sensations as well as some deep thoughts.

He loved her and had known it for a while. But his promise to keep things friendly had gone out the window when she gave him permission to kiss her. And he was under no illusions that she had. Now, however, her thoughts had shifted from the passion-laced ones following their kiss to something no less enticing but infinitely more pleasant.

She wanted to see if they could have a life together.

Charles stared at the ceiling, wishing she had kept that necklace on but thankful she'd taken it off. It gave him insight into her mindset that had been missing these last few days. Of course, he hadn't allowed himself to lower his mental fortress enough to climb inside her head until that evening. Something about having her that close, kissing her while she returned the embrace with just as much passion, had shattered any sort of shielding he had beyond the necklace he wore. When it came to Anne, he was as aware of her as he was of every other mind he'd touched while in Cerebro.

 _Cerebro!_ The thought was like a lifeline at the moment, and Charles threw back the covers. He grabbed his robe, shrugged it on, and then transferred to his wheelchair. As quickly as he could, he boarded the elevator, rode it to the basement, and then headed directly for Cerebro. The shielding in that room would keep Anne's thoughts from being too loud and give him a moment to truly think.

Breathing a sigh of relief when he entered Cerebro, Charles closed his eyes. He could still feel the press of Anne's mind, could still sense the desire that flowed from her as well as the contentment as she finally fell asleep. But it was muted and gave him the chance to rebuild his tattered control.

He wanted everything with her. A life, the school, home, family. . . .Whatever her definition of "a life together" entailed, he wanted it.

"Charles?" Hank's voice echoed, and he turned to see the scientist standing in the doorway. "Everything okay?"

How did he answer _that_? "Um. . . ." Charles shook his head slightly. Leave it to Anne to render him speechless without even being in the room! "Fine. Just. . .needing to think."

Hank took a few steps into the room. "Cuba?" he asked softly, knowing how touchy of a subject that could be.

Charles shook his head again, this time in answer to Hank's question. "No. Anne."

"Oh." Then, realization dawned, and Hank's eyebrows rose. " _Oh_."

"What's that mean?"

"Only that you _finally_ put all of us out of our misery." Hank turned to go. "I'll be in the lab if you need anything."

"Hank?" Charles faced Cerebro's controls, seeing the new dials and buttons that Hank had added in the months since Logan's appearance. He sighed. "I promised I would let you know if I told Anne of my mutation." He turned to watch how this impacted his friend. "I don't know when I will, but it'll be soon."

Hank studied him, his expression understanding and slightly frightened. The young scientist trusted Charles and had kept many of Charles's secrets. In the end, Hank had been the one to point out his need for someone who could help Charles recover from his alcoholism. But this was asking a lot. Still, he nodded. "I'll be ready for questions."

Charles accepted the answer Hank gave him, knowing that Hank feared rejection almost as much as Anne did. "Thank you, my friend."

"She makes you happy, Charles." Hank shrugged. "That's enough for me."

Charles watched his friend leave, wondering just what the coming weeks had in store. He would find time to tell Anne about his abilities before the holidays hit. And, when he did, he hoped he was ready to face whatever she chose. Because, at the moment, her decision controlled his future, and he found that giving his heart to her had resulted in a rather scary understanding that she could end everything for him.

"Not everything," he said quietly, though it echoed around Cerebro's chamber. He still had his promise to Logan. What were those names? Storm, Scott, Jean? _And Logan_ , his mind whispered. But his life would be less than what he wanted if he was unable to find them without Anne by his side.

~TBC


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note:** First of all, apologies for not posting on Monday. I ended up with a severe migraine, so bad I was barely able to function.

As always, I hope you enjoy this chapter! ~lg

~oOo~

The first class after the change in their relationship taxed Charles and Anne. They did their best to be professional while in class, but Charles couldn't help sending a sly glance in Anne's direction every now and then. And Anne kept fighting a silly grin as she thought about that morning. Charles had come into the kitchen where she'd been making tea, tugged her into a chair, and then proceeded to kiss her softly. It had been wonderful and startling and absolutely perfect all at once.

But class presented another challenge. Anne deliberately kept her eyes from straying to Charles too often, and she spent much of it wondering if she should ask Hank to take this chore. Because, frankly, she now had the right to openly admire Charles, and she found she wanted to do so more often. At the end of class, most of the students rushed out. But Jamie stopped next to Charles to make plans for their tutoring session that afternoon. And, before he bolted to his next class, he gave Charles a pat on the shoulder and Anne a cheeky grin. As the door closed behind him, Charles simply rolled his eyes. But both of them realized that the secret was likely out.

Their days settled into a routine, one that delighted Anne. Charles greeted her every morning with a kiss, and then she found a way to go about her day. Living under the same roof as the man she loved while not intimately involved with him—yet—taxed her self-control. But Charles was pretty plain two evenings after the failed chess game. He would not take their relationship further until both of them were ready for a stronger commitment. He wanted to share what they had, enjoy what they had, and not encumber themselves with something that, if shared too soon, would ultimately leave questions in her mind.

Oddly enough, Anne loved him more for that mentality. While he wanted physical intimacy with her, he wanted to wait long enough that she knew it was about them and _only_ them.

So, on the days they did not have class, Anne cooked, cleaned, strolled in the garden, knitted, and fell more and more in love with the life she now had. And Charles taught, prepared for his classes, tutored Jamie, and let himself finally accept new hopes and dreams for his future. Both of them had faced terrible things in their pasts, but they were stronger when they could accept those things and put them to rest.

Two weeks passed, with Anne blissfully aware that time had moved on. She watched the trees in the garden turn riotous colors and shed their leaves, feeling the chill of winter in the air. She loved this time of year, when she could sit on the couch in the library, a fire roaring in the fireplace, and wrap a big shawl around her shoulders while she and Charles enjoyed one another's company. They talked a lot in those weeks about the school, and Anne relished the changes. Rather than facing her on the opposite couch, Charles chose to sit next to her. Some nights, he pulled her close, and they talked arm in arm. On others, he read or studied while she knitted, always close enough that they were within touching distance. And, at the end of every day, he kissed her goodnight.

But she couldn't stop the questions in her mind. She never wondered about Charles's feelings for her, nor did she worry that he only wanted one thing. While he was still capable of intimacy with a woman, he openly admitted that it would never be as spontaneous as before. His injury during the Cuban Missile Crisis left him with more considerations about his life and daily routines than Anne had ever dreamed.

No, her questions centered around Charles's dreams for the school. She had not given it much thought when she admitted that she wanted to help him re-open the school. But, now, she found herself asking about his motivations. Why would a man with the kind of money and opportunities that life presented him decide to support mutants and their struggle for acceptance? While wealthy philanthropists abounded in the world, most of them had a reason for choosing their pet projects. What was Charles's reason?

On the first Wednesday in November, Charles dismissed class with a deep sigh. It had not been an easy one, what with students distracted by upcoming final projects and the short break for Thanksgiving. Granted, there were a few classes before the semester ended, but this one had just turned into a strange mess. Anne stood from her spot near the instructor's desk to begin straightening the room while Jamie and Charles held their usual post-class planning session. She had long since lost her jealousy of the younger man, realizing that Charles had not meant to exclude her from anything. Besides, recognizing her own failings had kept her from making everything about herself. And whatever questions she had about Charles and the school he eventually planned to open had faded to the background for the moment.

"Anne?" Rachel's voice pulled her out of her thoughts, and she turned to see the waitress standing a few feet away, her arms wrapped around her books and an uncertain look on her face. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Anne nodded, captured by the deeply worried tone and almost heartbroken expression. "Sure." She glanced at Charles and motioned outside, grabbing the wool coat she wore to class. He nodded in acknowledgment, gathering his papers and staying in the classroom. Anne led Rachel outside, pausing only long enough to pull on her coat and wrap a scarf around her neck. Rachel did the same, and the two women moved to a stone picnic table.

Anne sat down quickly, choosing to meet Rachel's eyes. Had Alex and Rachel finally gone their separate ways? "What's going on?"

Rachel sighed. "I'm worried." She picked at her fingernails, a habit that Anne recognized as one of uncertainty. "About Alex."

"What about him?"

"He's. . . ." Rachel shrugged, obviously not sure how to put her concerns into words. "I know he was in the war, and I know he saw things there that would horrify any of us. But, this is different."

Suddenly, Anne knew how Charles felt that day she stormed his study intent on making him pay for her failings and insecurities. She made a mental note to apologize to him and reached for Rachel's hand, stopping the nervous picking before Rachel made her finger bleed. "Rachel, what's wrong?"

Rachel hunched her shoulders to her ears in another shrug. "I don't know." She met Anne's eyes. "He's not sleeping. And, when he does, he wakes up either crying or shouting. And, the other night, he didn't seem to even recognize me."

Anne hated to ask the next question, primarily because she knew how it felt. But she also knew that Rachel and Alex had shared a very physical relationship since the very beginning. "Rachel, has he hurt you?"

"Not the way you're thinking." Rachel's quick answer was both heartbreaking and relieving. "I mean, he left bruises the other night, but. . . ." She shook her head, her face turning an interesting shade of pink. "I know what we're doing is. . .well, it's okay by some standards and not by others. But we've been happy so far. Alex told me as soon as we got together that he was in Vietnam, and I expected a few things. But not like this."

"Not like what?" When the other woman hesitated, Anne reached for her arm. "Rachel, I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

Rachel shrugged. "He. . .freaked out. Like I've never seen." She glanced around and lowered her voice. "He was dreaming, and I knew it. I tried to wake him up like before, and he just held me down. Started yelling for someone named Sean, to get out, to watch out. And, when he woke up, it was like he had no idea it was me. He. . .he was so sorry, and he told me it was better that he didn't come over again. Not until he got some things straight in his head."

Anne listened with a sinking heart, knowing the signs and what they meant. She had not dealt with many patients with shell shock in the past, but the stories were out there. And it made sense. The reality of what happened in Vietnam was plastered all over the television screens and sensationalized by the media, so much so that most soldiers returning home weren't given the kind of welcome that Alex had received. "Rachel, it's called shell shock. I've seen it before, but not that bad."

"It's from the war?"

"Yes." Anne sighed. "I don't know who Sean is—or was. But he was obviously close to Alex." She caught sight of Charles sitting some distance away, waiting patiently. "I'll talk to Charles, see if there's anything we can do at home to help. But, Rachel, until he's ready to face what happened and get help, there's not a lot we can do."

"I know!" Rachel's eyes filled with tears, a few of them sliding down her cheeks. "I'd just like to tell him that I care, that I'm happy, and that I really don't want this to end what we have!"

"Just be there when he needs to talk." Anne thought about all the times that she listened to Charles or, more recently, when he had listened to her. "That's all you can do. That and pray."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "I've been doing that." She straightened her spine slightly. "Thanks." She looked over at Charles, who was doing his best to avoid staring at them, and then gave Anne a sly grin. "You know the whole class knows, right?"

Anne laughed. "I do now."

"I think it's great." Rachel sat back, her smile happy in spite of her concerns. "The two of you have always fit." She stood and walked away after that, leaving Anne shaking her head in amusement.

Her smile faded as she joined Charles. He frowned up at her. "What was that about?"

"Alex." Anne settled on another concrete bench, this time next to Charles. "She's worried. And, from what she describes, he had a full-blown flashback the other night. Bad enough he left bruises."

Charles's head snapped up so quickly that it made Anne's neck hurt. The paperwork he'd been trying to shove into his briefcase rattled as his grip tightened on it. "He what?"

"From what she described, Alex was holding her down and yelling for someone named Sean to get out of somewhere." She watched the alarm that crossed Charles's face and then saw the heartbreak. "Charles?"

He covered his eyes, his jaw clenching. When he looked up, he was subdued. "Sean Cassidy was a former student of mine. He and Alex were close and were drafted at the same time." Charles swallowed harshly. "He didn't make it home, and Alex did."

"Charles, I am. . . ."

"It's alright." He leaned forward, his eyes suspiciously wet, and he laced their fingers together. "I knew that Sean's death had affected Alex, but this. . . ." He shook his head. "I'll speak with him when we get home."

Anne nodded. She didn't have to tell Charles the facts or that some things couldn't be helped with a simple conversation. Just like accepting her past had been a process that she struggled to find strength to face, Alex's battle with what happened in Vietnam would be the same. And this incident with Sean wasn't the only one. He likely had memories buried so deeply that the idea of admitting to such things made him sick.

Charles was subdued the entire way home, and Anne was grateful she didn't have to endure lunch. She felt slightly closed out, almost like Charles had information she didn't, but she refused to let it bother her. This wasn't something she could fix or that she needed to try to fix. And the grief that Charles still felt over Sean's death could not be handled in only a day.

Once at home, Anne offered Charles a soft smile and touch on the shoulder, and he returned the smile. But, less than an hour after they arrived home, she saw him head for the elevator and knew that he had decided to talk with Alex. And she found herself praying that the conversation would help. Otherwise, they were in for a very long fight, and she determined that she'd see it through to the end.

~oOo~

Rather than heading upstairs, as Anne assumed he would, Charles took the elevator to the basement areas. Along with the various labs and Cerebro, he had added several "danger rooms," one set up like a gym. It provided an area for his students to work on their physical prowess as well as their abilities. And, in the last few years, they had virtually gone unused. Hank chose to run the grounds, and Charles had usually stayed near the house with easy access to alcohol.

Now, however, one such gym had been used quite heavily. Charles rolled inside, not surprised to see a young Army private pounding on a punching bag. Sweat glistened on Alex's shoulders and dampened his shirt, but Charles saw more than just his physical condition. Alex was _tired_ , the same sort of exhaustion that had plagued Charles before he began dealing with his past.

Rather than interrupting, Charles watched as his former student jabbed and punched at the bag, his grunts of frustration filling the gym with a steady rhythm. Alex's form had improved in recent years, probably the result of intensive training while in Vietnam. But that form wavered as Alex lost his strength, and Charles waited until, at last, Alex dropped his fists to his side.

The younger man heaved a sigh and turned toward the bench where he'd set a bottle of water and a towel. "You gonna say anything?"

"Eventually." Charles wheeled forward, knowing he needed to speak with Alex. But no man, particularly one like Alex, enjoyed tearing the scabs off of wounds too deep to be easily explained. "I came to make certain you're. . . ."

"Not falling apart?" Alex gave a snort of contempt. "I'll be fine, Charles. Always am."

Charles narrowed his eyes, his mind picking up more than Alex wanted. In spite of his fortress, he still received the younger man's exhaustion, his self-loathing, and his crushing grief. "But you're not right now."

Alex huffed and stood with his back to Charles, his head tilted upward as if studying the ceiling. When he turned, his expression was closed and his eyes flat. "What do want, Charles?"

Blinking at the brusque treatment, Charles decided to be blunt. "Rachel's worried."

Alex shrugged at that. "Already knew that."

"So much so that she talked to Anne." Charles leaned forward in his chair, his expression open. "Alex, talking to someone about what happened is nothing to be ashamed of."

Alex's face crumpled. "She talked with Anne?"

Charles understood the dread that crept into Alex's voice. Anne had endured more than her fair share of abuse from men in the past, and learning that someone she cared about had been abused was difficult. But Anne hadn't seemed upset over Alex's treatment of Rachel. She'd been genuinely worried about Alex. "Rachel seemed fine, Alex. And she doesn't blame you."

"She should." Alex shook his head. "Look, I'm a guy. And guys like to rough house. But I would _never_ go out of my way to hurt Rachel. You have to understand that."

"I do." Charles tried to meet Alex's eyes, but the younger man kept looking away. "And Rachel knows you didn't leave those bruises on purpose. That you were. . .caught in that dream."

"She's got bruises?" Alex moved to a bench and sat down, bracing his elbows on his knees. He shook his head. "I knew it scared her, but I didn't. . . ."

Charles moved to his side. "What happened, Alex?"

"I dreamed." Alex studied his hands. "About Vietnam. When I woke up, I was. . .I was holding her down as if she was someone in my squad. My throat hurt like I'd been shouting, too." He paused, unwrapping his hands and sighing deeply. When he spoke again, his voice cracked, and he looked Charles in the eye. "Can you do something about this?"

Charles knew exactly what Alex had asked. As the younger man spoke, he saw a mental image of Moira driving away, her memories removed while Charles had watched with a sick feeling in his stomach. But this was different. This wasn't in protection of a group of young people who needed it. Nor was it trying to prevent an international incident. "That's not the answer, Alex." He sighed deeply. "One thing I've learned in recent months is that ignoring a problem or pretending it doesn't exist never truly solves anything. It just. . .creates more guilt and anger that will eventually come out."

"But Moira hasn't remembered us."

"No, and I don't imagine she will unless I want her to." Charles tilted his head to one side. "Alex, what I did to Moira, I did for her protection as well as ours. She knew as well as I did what the CIA would put her through, and I could not allow her to suffer because of us. Not when there was an easier, gentler way of solving the problem. Even then, I still wonder if it was the right decision.

"What happened to you in Vietnam was horrible." Charles watched as Alex flinched slightly. "And, frankly, I can already catch glimpses of things simply because of my abilities. But that is something a lot of men in this country are enduring. There are ways of coping that don't involve removing memories."

Alex straightened, anger and frustration mingling with genuine remorse and exhaustion. "Thought you'd say that." He stood and started walking toward the door. "Thanks, Charles, but I need to handle this on my own."

Charles watched him go, his heart heavy. He hated seeing Alex suffering through something like this, but he felt he had made the right decision. After all, if he removed Alex's memories, he would simply be medicating a problem the same way he'd allowed alcohol and drugs to dull his own mind. Some things were meant to be endured, even if he wished he could spare his friends from them.

That evening was subdued, with Anne simply building a fire and letting him brood. He appreciated her presence more than she knew, but he could not fully explain why it mattered. Perhaps because he trusted her enough to allow her to see his own frustrations. Or maybe because he simply found peace in having her close.

Over the next week, Charles paid close attention to Alex and his moods. He left the house for a good twenty-four hours after Charles refused to remove his memories, and even Anne had begun to worry. Seeing the strain on her features angered Charles, but he bit down on his response when he saw Alex again. The younger man had been out in the snow, likely walking the property or streets while trying to work through his issues. Instead of saying anything about Anne or how worried they had all been, Charles passed over a cup of warm tea and fixed a bowl of soup that Anne had prepared for supper.

The Friday afternoon before Thanksgiving, Charles joined Anne in the library. She had pulled out her lace shawl and had begun carefully taking it apart to find her mistake. She hadn't decided to do so until the previous evening. Charles had found her on their favorite couch, the shawl spread over one of the cushions as she frowned at it. After transferring from his wheelchair, he had put his arm around her shoulders while she sighed and told him that she would be. . .what was the term she'd used? Frogging it. He had wondered why until she said, "Well, when you take out knitting, you 'rip it, rip it.'"

He had wanted to cover his face at the horrible pun.

Instead, Anne had turned to him, her expression one that made him wish he hadn't promised himself certain things. A few moments later, she'd kissed him, and all thoughts of Alex, of telling her about his mutation, and of studying for the next day's labs had fled his mind. In those moments, he had seriously considered giving in to the unspoken desires in her mind, their passion so mingled that Charles could not tell where his began and hers ended. The feel of her ghosting her hands over his upper body nearly distracted him from the sliver of concern in her mind that still wondered if, should he give in, it would be because of her past.

At that moment, Charles had managed to ease back slowly enough that, when Alex unexpectedly interrupted, they weren't caught doing more than lightly kissing one another and laughing over something that he forgot a few moments later. Still, the implications of what had happened before Alex showed up was enough to send the younger man rushing away with a warning to "close the door before you start making out again!" Anne had blushed furiously, and Charles had simply let her bury her face in his chest while he laughed.

It felt good to have someone around who wasn't afraid to bluntly tell him that he'd begun acting like a teenager.

Now, Anne sat at the table, her brow furrowed as she collected every sparkling bead that she'd painstakingly knitted into her work. Charles sensed that the beads weren't so much expensive as no longer available. And, for a moment, he allowed himself to imagine the day when she allowed him to provide her with true crystal beads, not these glass imitations.

Anne smiled at him in welcome, moving her knitting around until there was plenty of room on the table. Charles carefully spread out his work, gearing up for a quiet afternoon of tea, a little laughter, and the headache that always came with grading his students' work. This assignment was part of their final grade, and Anne had already gone through these pages earlier that day, marking grammatical and spelling errors. But he graded the content, and he loved how easily she welcomed him. It was like this every day: a kiss in the morning, secret smiles throughout the day, and companionship in the evenings. Many times—like the previous evening—Charles longed for more. But he saw how Anne truly blossomed in the knowledge that he accepted every part of her. That gave him the strength to wait for her to fully heal from her past.

Of course, that meant she would also know about his mutation by then. Charles still had not found the right time to tell her. He had thought to do it the previous evening, but her ideas for how to recover from the heartbreak of pulling out a project she'd spent hours knitting had completely distracted him. With Thanksgiving a week away, however, he knew it needed to be soon.

As he sorted papers based on the red circles that Anne had put in the text, he let his mind consider the implications. They had talked a great deal about mutation in class that week, primarily because a number of his students had chosen to study various aspects of it. Anne still maintained that she wanted to help him open the school, and he had finally asked how she would react to a mutant who had no idea how to control his mutation. His question had been intentional. When he first met Alex, the younger man had no concept of control, and it had sent him to prison. The first step in teaching Alex that he could control his mutation had been a device that was later destroyed.

Anne had taken the time to think through his question, and they had spent an enjoyable hour discussing the various mutations Charles had seen. Through it all, he had never felt as if she would fully reject him. But he did wonder if she would care as deeply as she did.

 _You're afraid_. That voice in his mind that reminded him of his elder self made him frown at the first paper he chose to read. It was true. While he wanted Anne to know everything about him, he was afraid she would reject him and walk away if she knew that he could read her mind.

A strange disturbance, something Charles had not felt in a long time, interrupted his thoughts, and he blinked up at Anne. She still worked, those beads going into a bowl she'd used for weeks, her face completely calm. Frowning, he touched two fingers to his forehead, focusing his telepathy on the disturbance.

Alex was on his way down the stairs.

Charles's eyes widened at what he saw, and he sighed. Leaving Alex to himself for a few more moments, he sought out Hank's mind. _Come to the library, please,_ he ordered. _There's a problem._

Alex entered the library then, barging in even though only one of the double doors had been left open. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and his hands shook with the force of emotion that felt like a physical wave to Charles. "You gotta do something!" His voice wavered as he looked at Charles. "I can't take it anymore!"

Anne stared, her jaw open as confusion covered her features.

Leaving her to her thoughts, Charles focused on Alex. "Okay, just breathe, Alex." He forced himself to do the same thing, pushing the emotion back so he could think clearly without Alex's fear and grief crushing him. "You're safe and at home," he said slowly as he sensed the other man losing his grip on reality.

Alex wiped at his face. "I _know_ that!" He glanced around the room, his eyes wild. "But. . .I can see them! They're everywhere!"

"Okay." Charles moved his chair enough to touch Alex's shaking arm.

Alex abruptly turned to him, tears coming to his eyes and a plaintive tone entering his voice. "You've gotta do something, Charles! Remove them! Block them! I don't care! I can't take them anymore!" He gripped Charles's arm hard enough to leave marks. "I know what you said, and I've tried! But I can't. . . .I just. . . .Please! Get these memories out of my head!"

 _Where is Hank?_ The random question floated through Charles's mind as he realized that Anne had just learned of his mutation in a way that he could not have foreseen.

Alex blinked, his hand slipping away from Charles's arm too quickly for the telepath to catch. " _No!_ " The shout echoed through the lower floor of the house. " _Sean!_ "

Then, he moved toward the table with Charles's papers and Anne's knitting. "Sean! Get outta there! _Cassidy!_ "

Charles saw the recognition crossing Anne's face a split second before chaos erupted.

~TBC


	24. Chapter 24

" _No! Sean!_ " Alex's voice echoed off of the windows nearby, the desperation in his tone so thick it made Anne's throat close. He hurried toward the table. "Sean! Get outta there! _Cassidy_!"

Then, with another desperate curse, he grabbed the edges of the table and overturned it. Beads, knitting, and papers flew everywhere as Alex turned to Anne. His face was red, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks, and he only thought to keep another person safe. He grabbed Anne, ignoring Charles's shouts, and dragged her to the ground.

Anne's breath left her in a rush as she impacted the floor with enough force to cause her shoulder to pop. Then, she struggled to pull in a deep enough breath with Alex hovering over her, his entire stance one of protection. He looked around as if gauging the location of various men and then shouted again, this time a heartbreaking cry of pain. Somewhere nearby, glass broke, and Anne drew in a deep breath as Alex jumped up, peering over the table as if watching the worst moment of his life. And maybe he was.

Then, everything changed. Alex let out another gut-wrenching shout, his fist coming up as if to punch someone. Anne vaguely heard Hank yelling for Alex to stand down, and she could see Charles still in his wheelchair. His face was pale, sweat covering his upper lip as he, too, moved to intercept whatever blow Alex intended to land. But Alex didn't punch anything or anyone. Instead, he straightened his arm, almost like he had just taken aim.

Charles touched his temple, a look of absolute concentration on his features. "Go to sleep!"

Anne stared as Alex blinked several times, wavered, and then crumpled back on top of her. The incident occurred so fast it seemed to last forever.

"Anne!" Charles's voice penetrated the surprised fog in her brain, and she saw him reaching down for her. She shoved at Alex's shoulder, so near her face that it could have caused damage had she been any closer. A moment later, Hank lifted Alex off of her body, and she scrambled back toward Charles.

He grasped her hand, pulling her to her feet and steadying her when she stumbled. "Anne, are you hurt?"

"What?" Anne blinked at him, slowly regaining the ability to react to any sort of question. "Yeah—No. I'm fine."

Charles clearly did not believe her. He pointed at the couch. "Sit down." Then, he turned to where Hank had managed to pick up Alex and drape the unconscious man over his shoulders. "Take him upstairs and keep him there. He should sleep for several hours, but do _not_ leave him alone."

Hank nodded. "I got it, Charles."

"Beast." The call startled both Anne and Hank. Charles lowered his chin slightly, his tone one of command rather than a request. "I mean it."

Hank gave another nod, this one much less firm than the first. "I understand. Take care of her."

 _Beast?! Why would Charles call Hank 'Beast?'_ The random thought floated through Anne's head as she dropped onto the couch that Charles had indicated. Something warm touched her leg, and she looked down to see blood coating the outside of her ankle. She blinked at it. "Um. . .Charles? Maybe I'm not. . . ."

He turned at her words and cursed, a perfectly understandable and somehow reassuring response. Up until then, he'd been handling this situation as if it was perfectly normal. "Anne, I am so sorry."

"Why?" She blinked up at him, accepting yet another his handkerchiefs to press against the cut in her leg. "You didn't cause the flashback."

"So you recognized that, as well."

"Yes." She winced as her muscles began to tense. "Charles, no matter what happens, this wasn't truly Alex. I know that, and I'll be okay. Just a little more careful the next time he comes into a room crying."

Charles nodded with a relieved grimace meant to be a smile and then tugged on her hand. "The first aid kit is in the kitchen."

For the next several moments, Anne sat in a kitchen chair while Charles treated the wound on her leg. A shard of glass had embedded itself in her leg, likely from a broken lamp, and he apologized as he pulled it out. Then, after cleaning it, he securely wrapped the wound, his hands warm and reassuring. The entire time, she stayed quiet, her hands trembling and her thoughts still too scattered. But, whenever she met Charles's eyes, she saw a strange hint of dismay. And a touch of fear.

"Charles? Are _you_ going to be okay?"

He glanced up from where he'd been returning everything to the first aid kit or setting it aside for the trash. "I'm fine, love." His voice was as reassuring as his hands had been, but he saw she didn't believe him. "Trust me. I intend to find out what happened to Sean, even if it means forcing Alex to face the memories."

"That may not work, Charles, and you know it." Anne leaned forward, capturing one of his hands and holding it between both of hers. "You saw what happened when you forced me to reveal my past."

"Yes, but your past didn't cause you to break a lamp, overturn a table, and injure another person."

"It was an old lamp, the table is solid wood and okay, and I only have cuts and bruises." Anne met his eyes. "What's more important is Alex's well-being. And forcing him to face that memory may backfire."

Charles huffed out a sigh, one that said he agreed. "I know." He reached up and touched her face, his eyes softening as he studied her. "Are you certain you're okay?"

Rather than speaking, Anne leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn't passionate or even all that intense. Just a reassurance that she would be fine. "Go see to Alex. I'll clean up in the library."

Charles kept his forehead against hers. "When this is settled, we need to talk."

"I know." Anne gave him another kiss, pulling back before he was ready. "Go. I'll be here."

Charles backed away and headed for the elevator while Anne let out a deep breath. Those few moments with him had steadied her, and she managed to get control of her shaking hands. Then, with determination in every move, she grabbed a broom, dust pan, trash can, and anything else she might need.

The library was a mess. The table had been flipped nearly upside down, the heavy pedestal the only thing that kept it from flying through the window. Her chair sat on its side, as well as a small end table with the shattered lamp. Glass and beads littered the Persian rug, and Anne began working close to the door. She found glass shards everywhere, probably scattered when Hank carried Alex out of the room.

 _Hank had carried Alex?_ That thought made her frown. Hank was a good-looking young man, probably only a few years younger than Anne. But he was also thin, nearly frail, when compared to Alex. How had he managed to work up the strength to carry around a bulky kid like Alex? And why had Charles called him "Beast?" Was it because of work they'd done for the government in the past? Or had Hank worked for the government? Or was it the surprising strength that Hank had displayed in those few moments?

The questions swirled through her mind as she swept up as much of the glass as possible, picked up the broken lamp, and set about rescuing her knitting. The beads mingled with the glass, impossible to distinguish without shredding her fingers, and she sighed. She had spent so much time on that shawl. Fortunately, no blood had managed to work its way into the shawl, and it had been somewhat sheltered from the flying glass. So, she set it to the side to continue frogging, and then she began sorting out the papers. Several of them had creases or outright tears, not the best thing for Charles's students to see when they returned for a final class on Monday. But she had no doubt that Charles would explain it in his typical way, making the creases and tears seem perfectly normal rather than the result of a severe flashback.

 _This_ was what Rachel was talking about. Anne had known that Alex struggled, and Charles confided that the younger man refused to see a doctor. But she had not expected to actually _see_ one of these flashbacks, let alone that he would beg Charles to stop it. His pleading had broken Anne's heart, and she had actually looked at Charles as if he would know what to do. Unfortunately, he'd been just as startled and indecisive as the rest of them.

 _You've gotta do something, Charles!_ Alex's panic affected Anne even now, and she blinked back the tears that had threatened. With the crisis resolved, she let a few fall as she heaved the table back onto its pedestal. Then, she stood there, letting herself absorb the impact of the previous hour and simply feeling the release of emotions. She had learned in the last few months that this was as vitally important as accepting her past. If she buried the emotions and never allowed herself to work through them, she would end up back where she'd started: alone and hurting.

 _I know what you've said, and I tried! But I can't. . .I just. . .Please! Get them out of my head!_

 _Sean! Get outta there!_ _Cassidy_ _!_

 _Go to sleep._

That last memory, in a low, firm voice startled Anne from her thoughts. She heard that voice on a regular basis, usually somewhere beneath her ear in the evenings as she and Charles cuddled on the couch. Or, occasionally, during class when he needed to bring an unruly student under control. But, now, it took on a whole new meaning. Right after he said that, Alex had gone to sleep.

 _Alex went to sleep!_

Anne stopped breathing. Of course! She had always known Charles to be more perceptive to her thoughts and desires than most men, but she assumed it was just his nature. He watched people, paid attention to body language, and listened to what they had to say. But it was more than that.

 _No wonder he's so passionate about mutants._ That thought made more tears linger in Anne's eyes as she finally began putting all the pieces together, months of living in the same house, times when he understood something that most men would find too emotional, and when he had finally kissed her. . . .All of those little moments coalesced into one realization.

 _Hank, I can hear them!_

The voices he heard weren't in his own head! Anne had not thought back to the night he climbed back into a bottle, deliberately putting it from her mind as she had also dealt with quite a few of her own personal demons. It was simply there, part of the past. But, now, she understood. Charles had not been complaining about hearing voices in _his_ head. He'd been complaining about hearing voices in _everyone else's_ heads. Hers, Hank's, Alex's, and every student at the college. Every moment that he sat in that classroom and taught was a barrage of speculation, misunderstanding, hormonal tendencies, and pity.

But he'd been surprised by her statement that she wanted to help him re-open his school. Anne frowned at that. If Charles could read minds, why would that so startle him that he forgot about their chess game? And, if he could hear her thoughts, how did she win at Scrabble all the time? Was it because he could read _most_ minds? If so, how did that make her different?

Or was it anything about her? She had already noticed how Charles seemed lost around her, like he had forgotten how to _read_ her. But had he forgotten? Or had something _stopped_ him?

Her hand went to the necklace she wore daily, wrapping around it as she frowned. When had he stopped being so perceptive?

By the time she finished working in the library, Anne's head had begun to ache. She put her supplies away, finished returning the room to as close to an undisturbed state as possible, and made her way upstairs. Charles would likely stay with Alex until he woke, and Anne was suddenly grateful. She had a lot of thinking to do, and she hoped she could do so without breaking her own heart in the process.

~oOo~

By the time Charles returned to the first floor of the house, Anne had retired for the night. He sensed her desire to be alone and knew that she would come find him. Still, he wheeled back into the library and saw his students' papers neatly stacked. Her knitting, however, was gone.

With his heart sinking, he backed out of the room and retired to his bedroom.

She knew. He couldn't shake the instinct, even if he couldn't read her mind. But, somehow, he knew that she had put the pieces together. Anne was an extremely intelligent woman, her mind able to grasp concepts that were beyond most individuals. Even without mutant powers, she had a way of touching hearts and changing lives. She had done so for him, and he loved her for it.

But that brilliance also meant she could see all the pieces of a puzzle and get a cohesive picture. Charles stared out his window, watching the moon rise in the distance as he tried to prepare himself. Would she be angry? Frightened of him? He couldn't know just what her reaction would be, and he spent most of the night trying to prepare himself.

He failed miserably.

By the time morning came, Charles simply wanted to pull the blankets over his head and ignore the world. It was childish and unlike his typical self, but he could not bring himself to look forward to this day. Alex still slept, helped along by Charles's suggestion and his own exhaustion. Hank was with him, reading a book and making certain the young Army private didn't escape before they had a chance to talk. And Anne. . . .Charles couldn't feel Anne's mind, thanks to Hank's necklace, but he could hear the tea kettle whistle. It was such a normal sound, something he looked forward to every day, that he wanted to hope she had not learned his secret.

His hopes were dashed as soon as he reached the kitchen. Anne had prepared a tea tray with fruit and bagels for breakfast, only three cups sitting out rather than four. Charles glared at nothing and everything, fixing his tea and drinking it in silence. Today, this moment wasn't for enjoying a good cup of tea and letting its warmth prepare him for another cold winter in New York. It simply pooled in his stomach and made him feel ill.

Anne finally sought him out just after lunch. He had retreated to his study, grading papers and letting the mundane tasks of being a college professor take over his thoughts. If he didn't, he would end up going insane. But he heard her knock and looked up hopefully when she cleared her throat.

She met his eyes, her face pale and hands twisted together. "Can I have a word?"

Charles's heart sank at her formal tone. "Anne, no matter what, you're _always_ welcome here."

She offered an attempt at a smile as she walked into the study, carefully closing the door behind her. Then, she took a deep breath to brace herself.

Charles found himself mimicking her. "What's on your mind?" It seemed every conversation of note began this way.

Anne turned to look at him. "I know, Charles." She moved to a window, looking out over a segment of the garden that had been tamed in recent days. "It may have taken me a while, but I did finally put the pieces together."

Charles backed away from his desk, moving around it as if to approach her. But the very set of her shoulders, as well as the sense of heartbreak rolling off of her, stopped him. "You'll have to be a bit more specific, love."

She glared at him. "Don't play coy, Charles."

He laughed at that, a laugh born out of frustration. "I'm not! Unless you tell me what you're thinking, I'm in the dark!"

She snickered, tears coming to her eyes as her face reddened. "So you're going to pretend everything is normal? That you _didn't_ put Alex to sleep yesterday? And that you haven't been in my head all along?"

Charles felt his own expression change as her words managed to penetrate his irritation. His face cleared, and he let out a soft breath of air. "I haven't been in your head, Anne."

"You're a mutant!" She nearly shouted the words, as if volume would make them more profound than they already were. Then, she laughed at herself. "I should have seen it. I mean, the hints were there, going all the way back to Oxford. I _should_ have put it together! You have got to be looking at me and thinking that I'm the most oblivious woman you've ever met." She threw her hands out and then let them flop to her sides. "While I fell into your trap, thinking that we had something so wonderful, something that could possibly last a lifetime."

"We do!" Charles closed his eyes, doing his best to reign in his own emotions. With his hands clenched, he deliberately chose a calm tone. "Anne, what we share is. . . .It's beyond anything I've ever felt for any other woman in my life. And, yes, I hope it does last a lifetime. There was no trap."

She studied him, her tears falling as she absorbed his words. "Then why didn't you trust me?" She finally turned away from the window, her tone saturated by the tears she shed. "Charles, I have given you _everything_. Who I am, who I was, what I want for the future. I trusted you with everything about me, even things that no one else knows. And, I had hoped you felt the same way. Then, in a strange twist of fate, I learn that you're not just passionate about mutants. You _are_ a mutant. And, while I can accept that—because, frankly, who am I to judge—I can't ignore the fact that you didn't trust me with it. Even when you knew that I accepted that your school would mean I surrounded myself with mutants with various powers, you still didn't trust me! And _that_ is the problem."

Charles had no answer for her. Primarily because she was right. With a deep sigh, he shook his head. "There's nothing I can say because everything will sound like I'm justifying myself."

She narrowed her eyes. "Were you going to tell me?"

"Yes." He answered immediately. "Had this with Alex not happened, I probably would have told you last night."

Anne stared, taken back by that revelation.

He rolled forward a few inches. "Anne, while you've got to face your own thoughts over this, realize that I have more on my shoulders than simply my own happiness. I know mutants, others whose lives would be in danger should I fully reveal everything. There are parts of my history that I may _never_ be able to tell you. Not because they're classified or because they're necessarily bad. Just because they're not my stories to tell. That doesn't mean I don't trust you, no matter what you think. And that certainly does not mean I don't love you." He lifted his chin. "Because I do. I trust you with everything, not just a few moments' time each evening. And I love you with everything in me."

Anne clearly did not know what to say to that. And, truth being told, Charles had not meant to reveal how much he cared for her. He had intended to tell her that he loved her over a romantic dinner, or perhaps before he forsook his promise to himself to never push her. Or, if things went that far, the next morning while they cuddled under warm blankets. But he had never imagined that he would tell her that he loved her when she was emotional and frightened and so hurt that she couldn't stop crying.

She shook her head, blinking back tears even as more traced their way down her face. "Charles. . . ." Her voice trailed off, the longing in her tone almost too much for him to handle.

But he had one more thing to tell her. "And, for the record, I can _not_ read your mind. Not right now. There are moments, times when it's easier. But I've learned to stay out of other people's thoughts."

She nodded. "I need time, Charles." She shrugged. "I mean, all I want to do is to say everything will be okay and that I can stay and that we can be happy. But this. . . ."

"This is something too big to simply accept."

"No." She met his eyes. "I can accept you—for _who_ and _what_ you are. I just. . . .I need time to decide if. . . ."

"I understand." And he did, even if it broke his heart. He held her gaze. "You will always be welcome here."

Anne nodded and snorted. "Why do you have to be so nice all the time?"

"I'm not nice all the time." Charles forced himself to smile. "There was a time when I didn't want this ability, and I let it drive me to drink."

Anne didn't say anything else. She simply offered him a watery smile and slipped out of his study.

Charles watched her go, his heart breaking as he closed his eyes. Somehow, in the last twenty-four hours, he had managed to lose the one person who meant the most to him. _Raven, Erik, and Anne._ Those three people that he had loved in different ways—sister, brother-in-arms, and lover—had all left him. Or he had driven them away.

When he was certain Anne had reached the upstairs portion of the house, he reached out for the closest thing he could find. His fingers wrapped around a lamp older and far more expensive than anything Alex had broken the day before, and he gave a shout as he hurled it against the wall. Then, as the glass showered onto the floor, he hung his head.

No matter when Anne returned— _if_ she returned—he would make certain he was here. And he was sober. He owed it to Anne to stay that way, to honor the profound change she'd brought to his life. But, for the first time in a very long time, the hope that had taken root in his heart weakened, and he wanted to grieve for the loss of his dream. He still had his school and the promise he'd made to Logan. But the woman he'd hoped to share it with had gone, and he could not know if she would return.

~oOo~

Anne knocked softly on Alex's door, not surprised when Hank answered. She offered a tight smile. "Is he awake?"

"Yeah." Hank stepped back, letting her into the room. It wasn't as opulent as the rooms Charles had given her, and she saw a compulsive neatness brought on by Alex's time in the Army. But the young man stood next to a window, arms crossed and glaring down.

Anne gave Hank a reassuring squeeze on his arm and then moved across the room.

Alex glanced over, his angry expression fading when he saw her. Instead, something heartbreaking took its place. "I tried," he said softly. "I tried facing them."

"I know." Anne swallowed, hating herself for even considering what she was about to do.

Alex shook his head. "Did I hurt you?"

She thought about the cut on her leg and other, minor bruises that had come up overnight. "No." She met his eyes. "Alex, this was not your fault."

"I'm the one who had the flashback," he reminded dryly.

"Yes, and you also thought I was a member of your squad."

"How'd you know?"

"You protected me." She reached out and put a hand on his arm. "Alex, you need help. More than Charles can give you. He's a geneticist, not a psychologist."

"I know." Then, he blinked. "You know."

"About Charles? Yes." She drew in a deep breath. She had made her decision and cried her tears. Now all that was left was to get through the next several moments. "I just wanted to see you before. . ." She swallowed. ". . .before I left."

Alex's eyes widened. "You're leaving? Because of me?"

"Because I need time." She shrugged. "It's a lot to take in, and Charles and I have a lot to work through."

"You fought with him."

"Yes." While they had not shouted at one another all that often, they had fought. "Alex, as much as I love Charles, I have some things to finish getting straight in my own head. But I wanted you to know that I'm not leaving because of anything you—or Hank—have done. If anything, you two have given me the best gift: being able to face my past in a safe place. But I need to get my own mind in order before I can fully commit to anything else."

Alex nodded, his expression a mix between reluctant and understanding. "You'll be back?"

"I don't know." Anne hated that she couldn't give him an answer. "I'm headed up the coast, to a bed and breakfast near the beach where I can have some quiet. I'll make sure you or Hank has the address."

Alex glanced across the room to the other man there. "For what it's worth, I am sorry." He grinned slightly. "And I don't think Charles did anything on purpose."

Anne rolled her eyes. "Charles does everything on purpose. It's just a matter of which purpose he's serving at the time."

"Well, you have a point." Alex reached out and pulled her into a hug, one that sent shards of relief through her. "Take care of yourself." He set her away from him, his hands on his shoulders. "And don't stay away too long. We all need you here. Especially Charles."

Anne gave him a slight smile and stepped away. At the door, she hesitated over whether to hug Hank or to shake his hand. Instead, he pulled her into an awkward hug as well, one that spoke volumes to Anne. Then, after one last glance, she walked out of the room, gathered her bags, and left the mansion in a car she'd arranged. And, as she rode out the gate and watched it disappear behind her, she knew.

She was scared and running again, and she had just abandoned the best thing in her life.

~TBC


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note:** So, I am super excited about this particular chapter. There are things that this chapter faces and/or mentions that some of you have been asking about.

Also, as I can't respond to one reviewer via PM, I figured I'd put this in here for everyone. Someone pointed out that, in the comics, Charles had a Ph.D in Psychology and an MD in Psychiatry. As I should have mentioned in my very first author's note, I don't know the comics well. And I based this off of the movies, which have him as a geneticist, not a psychologist or psychiatrist. In my mind, those latter two come after he gets back on his feet, a natural growth of his telepathy. At this point in time in my mind, he is simply a geneticist.

All of that said, this chapter has actually grown a bit due to all of your wonderful reviews. And I value all of them, even those that some might view as too critical. They all make me a better author, and I appreciate the time you take in leaving them.

As always, I hope you enjoy the chapter! ~lg

~oOo~

Hank McCoy had never been the best at interpersonal relationships. But he was no fool when it came to Charles Xavier. He had watched Charles slide down into alcoholism and drug addiction, hoping to deaden the pain of loss and the pressure of the voices in his mind. Those years of watching and doing nothing had broken Hank's heart just as surely as Raven's actions and rejection had.

He supposed he'd had that one coming, though. In spite of how much he truly cared for her, he could never accept her in her natural blue form. In Hank's mind, it was as much of an aberration as his feet, something that should never have occurred. But it had, and he had thought he could fit her into his own world view. _You're beautiful now._ Those three words haunted him for years, and he had never truly asked her forgiveness. How could he? The next time he saw her, she'd played that moment down, trying to seduce him just to get to Cerebro. By that time, Hank had been so caught up in his own self-recriminations that he'd just added the responsibility of Cerebro's destruction to his growing list of failures.

Charles had tried stop him from doing so. Even though the telepath had struggled to put his past behind him, he had seen Hank's guilt and had pulled him aside. _Raven made her choices._ Charles's words echoed in Hank's mind. _She's cut her ties, and she has to bear the consequences of her actions. You are no more guilty of her crimes than I am of Erik's._

The last time Hank had seen her, she'd just saved the president after holding a gun to Bolivar Trask's head. Erik tried to kill her, and then she had, ultimately, averted future disaster. But _Hank_ had been the one to tell Charles to shut her down, the one who finally gave up hope at the very end.

And, yet, she had still offered him an almost-smile before leaving the White House lawn. Hank had no idea where she'd gone, and it didn't matter how many times he asked Charles. The telepath had chosen to leave his sister to her own life, and nothing Hank offered in return would entice him to pry into her mind. Besides, what right did Hank have to try to find Raven and save her when he'd been the one to suggest that Charles incapacitate her?

As a result, Hank had spent months hiding in his lab, knowing that Charles and Anne had fallen in love with one another. He cared dearly for both of them but felt ill equipped to handle their obvious affection and Alex's pain and his own guilt. So, he'd hovered when he felt the need but otherwise let the world pass him by. Being called to the library, having his secret outed because of a crisis and not because Charles had chosen a good time, and then watching Charles stare out the window. . . .It all reminded him of when Moira left. Charles had sat in his study for hours at a time, not doing anything beyond watching the drive and leaving Alex, Hank, and Sean to themselves. Then, he'd picked himself up, put his three students to work, and threw everything he had into building the school.

This was worse, however. Anne's departure, while not entirely unreasonable, had managed to harm Charles in a way that Hank had never seen. When Charles let the drugs and alcohol take hold, he'd simply been broken. This. . . .It nearly destroyed him that Saturday evening when he'd wheeled into the lab and told Hank to order pizza for their supper. It wasn't the pizza or even the request that angered Hank. It was the dimming of the hope that had finally begun to burn brightly in Charles Xavier's eyes.

Hank watched for three days as Charles rose every morning, made tea, ate a small breakfast, and continued his work. He even filled in as Charles's assistant on Monday, telling the class that Anne had taken the holiday off. But Rachel clearly realized what had happened. She marched up to Hank after class and demanded to know when Anne would return.

That, more than anything, made Hank's decision for him. He was responsible for the wreck Charles had become after losing the school, and he lived with that knowledge every single day. Not only did he force himself to keep his serum under lock and key, but he often debated whether or not to even take it. After all, wasn't Charles's dream to provide a safe place for mutants of all abilities and colors? Why did it matter that he looked normal when he spent most of his life in a place that would never glance at him again because he was actually blue? Would it really be so bad if a woman like Anne, someone who seemed to connect to the plight of mutants so deeply, knew of his true form?

The day before Thanksgiving, Hank slipped out of the house early, while Charles still slept. The telepath would have told him to wait, to leave Anne to her thoughts and let her return on her own. That was Charles's way. He gave people opportunities to overcome their fears and guilt on their own, providing a supportive ear to listen when they needed it. Hank, however, was a Beast. His method of coping involved facing a problem head-on, even if that problem was so far beyond him that he barely understood it. But he refused to let Anne wreck her life because she was frightened of Charles. Not after everything she'd endured until now. And he definitely would not allow her to destroy the man that Charles Xavier had finally become. Not if all it took to repair things was revealing his secret and letting her see why Charles had kept his secret for so long.

Alex agreed with Hank when he first broached the idea, and he handed over a cup of hot coffee for the drive. Hank had done some research, tracking Anne northward. He nodded to Alex, who was just as supportive of Hank's idea, and left the mansion barely an hour before Charles rose.

It only took a few hours to find the bed and breakfast. Anne had been clear in her instructions to find her if something changed. Now, Hank took a moment to think through what he would tell her before he walked into the picturesque house. It perched on a hillside overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, a place Anne likely would never have thought to come before Charles and his exorbitant way of paying her.

Inside, Hank smiled at the proprietress and tried to sound as charming as Charles. "Good morning. I'm actually looking for one of your guests. Anne Conrad?"

The lady nodded. "I'll take you up to her room." She gave Hank a speculative glance. "Are you and Miss Conrad involved?"

"No!" Hank readjusted his glasses, wishing he didn't have this weird urge to fidget. The question was out of line, and it irritated him that the woman would be so bold as to ask something so personal. "She and I consulted on a patient recently and became good friends. I'm here to invite her to share Thanksgiving with my family." _Well, it's the truth!_

The proprietress accepted that with an obviously relieved smile. "That's wonderful!" She leaned toward Hank as they reached the top of the stairs. "And I'm glad. We would have been happy to have Miss Conrad join us, but the young woman seems so sad."

 _So does the man who loves her._ Hank simply nodded at that, not certain what he should say. Instead, he thanked the owner of the house and knocked on Anne's door.

Her reaction was unexpected. Panic covered her face, and she grabbed his arm, dragging him inside. "What happened? Is Charles. . . .Did he. . . ?"

Hank suddenly realized how she'd taken his appearance. "Charles is fine. Nothing happened."

Anne let out a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing. "You. . . I thought. . . ." She didn't have to say it even if both of them had worried about how Charles would react to her departure.

Hank shrugged. "I'm here because I wanted to talk with you. Not because Charles asked me. And, before you go there, Alex is fine. He's agreed to let Charles help him find a psychologist."

"Good." Anne motioned toward a love seat, a pale pink affair that fit into the little-girl look of the bedroom. She perched on the end of the bed. "What is it?"

Hank sat down and stared at his hands. He had thought of nothing else for hours, tying his stomach into knots and nearly making himself turn around. But he believed this would be the best thing he could do. After all, Charles needed Anne around as much as any of them, and having a normal human in the house that openly accepted and approved of mutants would do wonders for students' mindsets.

Anne truly was the epitome of "normal." No matter how unique Charles thought her, Hank had to take that opinion with a grain of salt. Charles was head-over-heels, and everything Anne said or did fascinated him. It had from the very beginning, Hank realized, and he'd watched with amusement while Anne dragged Charles away from the edge of the pit that threatened to overwhelm him yet again. For that reason alone, Hank and Alex accepted her and came to love her as a sister. But neither of them had been as trusting as Charles, who had wanted to tell her everything. The younger two men had discussed this at length, and both agreed, however. Whatever Anne's reaction to them, it was nothing compared to seeing Charles settled and able to move forward with his promise to Logan and other mutants around the world.

Besides, Anne had somehow managed to do the one thing everyone thought impossible. She had so enchanted Charles Xavier that the telepath would rather carry on without happiness than think of betraying her. And he absolutely refused to remove the knowledge of their existence from her mind, a courtesy he hadn't even given Moira.

Still, how would she feel when she knew the truth? Would she scream? Tell him to leave? Or worse?

Finally, Hank looked at her. "I want to show you something," he said softly, "but I need your promise that you won't do anything foolish." _I even sound like Charles now!_ "What I mean is. . . ."

"You're a mutant." Anne's interruption was paired with a surprised tone. "Like Charles."

"Yes. And no." Hank shrugged, his hands trembling as he fidgeted with his sleeves, his glasses, and anything else his fingers touched. "Most mutants are like Charles. You probably wouldn't even know they had powers until you saw them used. But not all of us are so blessed."

Anne stared at him, a frown on her face in spite of the openness he sensed from her. She had accepted that he was a mutant rather easily, probably the result of several days to herself. "You are normal," she said. "So much so that, when you picked up Alex, it surprised me."

Hank met her eyes. "No, I'm not." He took a deep breath and braced his elbows on his knees. "I take a serum that lets me regulate my appearance. The same kind of serum that, for a time, cured Charles's spine and muted his telepathy. But I take just enough to stay balanced, to where I can go out in public without causing mass panic."

Anne's expression changed as she listened. She cycled through concern, understanding, and confusion. Then, with a deep breath, she visibly shored up her defenses and nodded. "Show me."

Hank blinked at that. He had come here to show Anne what he was, to explain that Charles kept his mutation a secret for reasons other than trusting her, and to convince her to return. He had never expected her to order him in much the same tone that Charles used whenever he needed something revealed. "You're sure?"

She nodded again.

Hank took another deep breath. This was it. This was the moment he learned whether Anne could ever be a part of their lives. If she reacted poorly, he would leave and never even mention that he'd been to see her. Granted, Charles would know, but Hank had resolved that he wouldn't talk about what happened if this went badly. But, if it went well. . . .

Letting out his breath, Hank released control of his mutation, letting the beastly senses and appearance take over. He pulled his glasses from his face, knowing he wouldn't need them. His vision sharpened, his sense of smell picked up on the lavender sachet tucked under a pillow, and he tasted snow on the air. Fur grew all over his body, filling out the baggy clothing he wore for just such an event. And he heard himself growl slightly as he worked to take in all of these sensations and still keep control.

Anne stared with her mouth hanging open. For a moment, she seemed frozen in place while Hank shrugged at her. Watching him transform into a blue furry creature couldn't have been the prettiest thing to see.

Then, she reached out, her hand bound for his arm before she realized what she was doing. A blush covered her features, and she shook her head. "Sorry." She sat on her hands. "I don't know what I was. . . .Hank?"

He met her eyes, watching the way she studied him. He saw curiosity more than revulsion and, in spite of a spark of fear, a sincere desire to truly understand him. "This is why Charles waited so long to tell you about his mutation." His words impacted her, bringing tears to her eyes even as she tried to keep control of her emotions. "It wasn't because he didn't trust you. He promised to keep us—all of us—safe. And he promised that he would never reveal my secret to anyone. Not telling you about his mutation was less an act of mistrust and more an act of upholding trust."

Anne glanced away, her eyes still suspiciously wet. For a long moment, she stared out the window, where a light snow obscured the view of the beach. Hank tried not to squirm, but he refused to allow her to think Charles's actions were motivated by something as petty as self-preservation. When it came to Charles Xavier and those he called family, self-preservation went out the window.

Finally, she sighed. "I feel like an idiot."

Hank chuckled at that, the low growl in his tone drawing a sudden glance from Anne. "It means you're human," he said. "And, for what it's worth, Charles will understand. He's made his mistakes as well."

Anne frowned at him, her mind whirling off on another topic as quickly as before. "So, Alex is. . . .What is his gift?"

Hank couldn't stop the smile. She hadn't used "ability" or "power" or "mutation." "Alex can fire laser blasts from his body. Years ago, he had no idea how to control it, but he can regulate it now with a bit of concentration."

Anne's eyebrows rose. "So, the other day when he had his flashback. . . ."

Hank nodded. "He nearly took out a wall of the house."

"And Charles reads minds." Anne smiled at him, but it was strained. "Does he know you're here?"

"Probably." Hank hesitated and then shrugged. "At least, he probably knows I was thinking about finding you. But he was still asleep when I left this morning."

Anne glanced out the window, her eyes not really focused on the snow that had begun to fall in light flakes that obscured everything. "Hank, I know why you're telling me this. You want to make me understand. But. . . ." She sighed. "He's been reading my mind for months, and I never knew it."

"He can't read your mind." Hank watched as she tried to figure out how that was possible.

"But I thought. . . ." She frowned. "His abilities allow him to read. . . ."

" _Most_ minds." Hank's interruption wasn't all that surprising. He pointed, indicating the necklace that still hung around her neck. "I had that made out of a metal that, depending on how it's charged, will either shield from or enhance his abilities. There's a small chip in that necklace that creates a sort of bubble around your mind. Charles mentioned a few weaknesses, but he never fully explained them."

Anne reached up and touched the necklace, her mind trying to figure out how this related. It didn't take long. "He did this so he didn't influence me. The way he did to Alex."

"Yes."

She frowned, and then her expression fractured. "The night that he got drunk and I had no idea how he managed to get the alcohol home. . . . _That's_ what happened?"

Hank hated this part. Anne had figured out almost everything, and she would likely root out all of their secrets if she continued. But seeing the hurt that covered her features, the way tears filled her eyes, did something to him. He suddenly wanted to find Charles and remind him of that moment, but he knew it would do no good. Charles had steadfastly held on to his sobriety in the days that Anne had been gone, and he had not once indicated that he would let go of his dreams. If anything, he'd thrown himself into them even more. "He made a mistake, Anne."

"I know, but. . . ." Her hands shook as she folded them into her lap. "Why are you here? Sort of a 'For your information' kind of thing?"

Hank closed his eyes, bringing the Beast back under control and somehow regretting the loss of the sharpened senses. "I didn't come here to tell you all of this just so you know. Alex and I want you to understand what kind of man you left behind. And, while I may not be the best with personal relationships, even I see the changes you brought to Charles."

"You want me to go back."

"Yes." Hank stood then, awkwardly motioning over his shoulder. "Tomorrow is Thanksgiving." He shrugged. "Family should be together." He grinned as he thought of another tidbit of information he hadn't given her. "And Rachel is cooking."

Anne blinked. "Rachel's cooking?" Her question was less about Rachel's ability to cook and more about the woman.

Hank grinned. "After you left, Alex talked to her. She's been a big help, letting him bleed off the tension while not panicking. You taught her well."

Anne didn't say anything else. She looked as if she didn't quite know what to say to that. Instead, Hank took that as his cue to leave and slipped out the door. He hoped he'd managed to get through to her because he hated the idea of learning what losing Anne would do to Charles. Granted, Charles now had Alex and Jamie depending on him, but it had only been a few days. Even though he went about his business, his heart just wasn't in his work.

Hank truly feared for what would happen if Charles once again lost too much.

~oOo~

Anne couldn't move. She heard Hank leave her room, recognized when the door closed, and knew that he'd left the decision in her hands. She wanted to immediately rush out the door, hire a car, and go back to Charles's home. To rush into his arms and declare that everything was okay and that she would never leave again.

But she couldn't know that. Not with what Hank had showed her. The knowledge that Charles had this ability to read her mind concerned her, and that he had managed to easily manipulate Alex terrified her. However, as the shock of Hank's revelation wore off, she found herself descending into another emotion: betrayal.

Reaching up, she unclasped the necklace and tossed it onto the bed. Charles had given it to her, and she had proudly worn it as a way to remind him of his promise. She had used the necklace to keep him in line as much as he had used it to get back in her good graces. Anne could accept that. But the deeper motive behind the necklace—so he couldn't manipulate her mind—left her wanting to scream and cry and pull out her hair. How could she trust him again? How could she allow him into her life when he could make her do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted? What sort of relationship would that be?

Pacing over to the door, Anne reached for a shawl and slipped onto the balcony. The wind cut through the shawl, and she pulled it closer as she ignored the snow that fell around her. Rather than crying, she tried to think of Charles, of his fears, of what he might have felt after realizing that he'd used her to get what he wanted. The man she'd known—the man she'd seen in recent weeks—was a good man, an honest man, and someone who would happily give up his own happiness for others. It didn't track with the same man who had cavalierly entered her mind to remove memories of the alcohol.

An image of her would-be seducer at the coffee shop flashed through her mind, particularly his shout of indignation. And she understood. Charles had somehow changed his perception of coffee. But that had finalized a downward spiral. If he could do that with just a few moments, what else could he do?

What _would_ he do? Anne blinked at the horizon, her angry thoughts trailing off at the thought. She had often taken the necklace off to bathe, and someone as powerful as Charles had to have known that. But he had not interfered in her life, nor had he tried to keep her from leaving. No matter how this device worked, it still had its flaws. And, had Charles wanted to keep her close or erase her memories or anything else, he could have exploited them. But he had let her go, something that Anne knew he would find an agonizing decision given how many times he'd been abandoned in the past.

She felt like such a fool. When she'd left Charles and the only true home she'd ever known, she had recognized that it would break her heart. And she had never truly anticipated returning. Not when Charles could not trust her with the biggest portion of his life. She had not, however, foreseen that Hank—awkward, socially inept Hank McCoy—would seek her out and tear all of her assumptions to shreds. But, with one quick revelation, he showed her how shallow she'd been.

When had she begun to believe that Charles didn't trust her? He gave her free access to his home, even allowed her to leave without stopping her, and completely welcomed her. Everything she had become was due to one man's generosity. It didn't matter to her that he could still lapse back into alcoholism with only one taste. Charles had begun to rebuild his life, and he had done so with help from a woman as broken as he had been.

Her tears began to fall as she faced the final bit of her insecurities. Anne tried to breathe, but the pressure of what she had done weighed her down as she let go of all of her ideas. She had left because, on some level, she doubted Charles and his actions. While he had shown her unconditional acceptance and genuine love. And, in the spirit of that love, he had let her go.

The next morning, Anne found she had nothing left to hide. She had the sensation of an errant child crawling back to her parents and asking them for forgiveness. But, after a night full of self-recriminations and self-examination, she just wanted to go home. Not back to New York or to a mundane existence as a woman alone in a world dominated by men. She wanted to return to a place where she was valued, a place she loved, and a man who saw her for who she was and what she had done and didn't care in the least.

As she dressed, Anne took a moment to consider her wardrobe. She was going home, yes. But she also wanted Charles to understand that she was returning to _him_. So, with trembling hands, she pulled on the red dress he'd loved so much and then fastened the necklace around her neck. If it really did keep him from her mind, she could use that surprise to gauge his reaction to her return.

The drive back to Westchester and the mansion on Graymalkin Drive passed too slowly. Anne spent most of it working up the courage to face Charles, to ask for his forgiveness, and to show him how wrong she'd been. But she had no idea what to say, and acting as if nothing had happened would have been the biggest mistake of her life. She had clearly hurt him deeply if Hank had come to see her, and she refused to pretend as if nothing had happened.

Once there, she sat outside the gate. If she was wrong about this necklace, Charles already knew she had arrived. And he probably knew why she had arrived. However, every time they talked in recent weeks, he had never tried to figure out what she wanted to say or how to fix it. He simply listened. Then, if the situation was right, he either held her, kissed her, or just let her think. The memory put a smile on her face, and she found she could not wait to see him again.

That pushed her to continue driving through the gate. Someone, probably at Charles's request, had left it open in welcome. With snow on the ground, the sky threatening more, and the dimness of the day, the house fairly glowed. The bottom floor poured light through the windows, and Anne smiled when she spotted the music room. The piano was open, the chandeliers glittering, and smoke came from several chimneys. Someone walked past a window, stopping a moment later to watch her climb out of her rental car. Then, with a huge grin, Hank rushed to open the front door.

He met her with a hug. "I'm glad you're back."

"Thank you." She quickly shed her coat, hanging it on the coat rack near the door. It looked so natural there, like it belonged in the midst of more masculine apparel and the lap blanket that Charles used to keep his legs and feet from freezing without his knowledge. She glanced at Hank. "Where is he?"

"His study." Hank grinned slightly. "Jamie's here, so be warned."

"And Alex and Rachel?"

Hank flushed. "They say they're cooking dinner, but. . . ."

Anne didn't need to be a telepath to know what Alex and Rachel were doing. Hank's expression said it all.

Rather than letting herself become focused on that, she touched the necklace at her throat as she headed for the study and its closed door. This was it: the moment she decided whether or not she fully trusted the man she claimed to love. If she didn't, she might as well get back in that car and drive away. If she did, however, she had one last thing left to give him.

She reached up and unlatched the necklace, letting it fall into her hand.

The door opened before she had a chance to knock. Jamie grinned at her. "We're done. I'll be in the kitchen with the others."

Anne barely had a moment to say anything before he darted toward the dining room. Then, she turned to stare at the study.

Charles had just finished transferring back to his wheelchair, shaking his hair from his eyes as he looked at her. His face was a mask of shock, apprehension, and so much love that Anne could barely take it. She met his eyes, shrugging. "I'm sorry."

Charles blinked at her, his own tears close to the surface. "Hank told me he'd gone to see you." He tried to smile. "Welcome back."

Anne could barely force the words from her throat. It had closed around what she wanted to say, leaving her voice choked. "I'd hoped to be welcomed _home_."

Charles laughed, a sudden, relieved chuckle that had nothing to do with amusement. At the sound, Anne walked straight to the couch and sat on the edge, reaching out to take his hands. "Charles, I am so very sorry. I was a fool, and. . . ."

He reached out and put a finger on her lips. "You're human, and we all make mistakes." He smiled, this expression reaching his eyes even though they still sparkled with unshed tears. "Welcome home."

Not certain what else to say or do, Anne did what she'd dreamed of doing all through the night. She leaned forward until Charles met her in a soft kiss. Neither of them wanted to push the other, and she hated the strange hesitation between them. She had come back to stay, not to leave again when she got scared. And, in a strange way, being here had just confirmed how much of a fool she had been.

Charles pulled back a moment later. "No more thinking of that." He tucked her hair behind her ear, his thumb tracing its way across her cheek in a move that was tender and so electric she could barely stand it. "You're home. And I, for one, am very happy you're here."

Anne let out a deep breath. "When Hank showed me why you never told me what you are, I realized I made the biggest mistake of my life."

"But you came back." He sat back long enough to meet her eyes. "Anne, all of us make mistakes. And all of us need a little help. It is what we do with that help that defines us. For both you and I, we had to learn to hope again, and it took our friendship to bring us to that place. In the process, we found something worth so much more."

She nodded briefly. "About that, Charles." She glanced away and then faced him. "Will you ever tell me what happened to you? Why you lost hope in the first place?"

A smile played around his lips, one that was relieved and happy and tearful all at once. He seemed to debate what he would say, and then he sighed. "I could tell you." He paused. "Or I can show you."

Anne realized what he had asked her. This wasn't about whether or not he could read her mind. He had just asked her permission to enter her mind and show her the worst possible moment of his life. The moment of true trust had arrived, and Anne wanted to weep. This one secret had always eluded her, and she recognized that he had placed his trust in her to tell her the stories of other people, others who had no say in what she would or would not do with that information. Just as much as she needed to trust him to only show her what had happened, he trusted her with the truth.

She nodded. "I trust you."

~TBC


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note:** I sincerely apologize for the length of time between now and my last update. My computer decided that it needed to corrupt the operating system. Thankfully, we have a computer guru in the family, so he fixed it. But it left me without a usable computer for several days.

All that said, I'm so glad you're all enjoying the story. A quick review response since I can't PM this individual: To **CarpeDiem—** I was not offended in the least by your comments. I hope my last note didn't come across that way. If it did, I apologize. I appreciate that anyone fills me in on trivia that I didn't/don't know. I simply wanted to outline why I hadn't pursued that side of Charles Xavier yet.

Also, to the guest that responded about knitting: I cannot recommend it enough. Knitting is actually quite therapeutic. As Anne said in an earlier chapter, it does have practical applications in the areas of depression and pain management. My sister who has fibromyalgia knits and spins yarn (something I'm doing as well), and she said it actually helps her with her pain and depression from the pain. Something about the repetitive motion helps the brain stay active (which is why it's also helpful for Alzheimer's and dementia patients) as well as allowing someone stressed or depressed to focus on a productive thing they can do to calm themselves. I highly recommend anyone who is stressed or just feels rushed to find some yarn, google "learning to knit," use the YouTube videos, and make time to relax. It's worked for me, and I believe it'll be something that can enrich a life if you're interested in it!

As always, I hope you enjoy! Oh, and, be prepared for fluff! ~lg

~oOo~

Alex glanced up as Hank and Jamie walked into the kitchen, grins in place. The two younger men gave a comical glance to the room, and Alex caught Rachel's eye as they did so. She blushed slightly, a new development since his little meltdown.

 _Maybe not so little_ , he thought. He had spent a full forty-eight hours in his room after the incident, going over everything in his mind. In those two days, he'd said goodbye to Anne, had seen how Hank worried over both him and Charles, and had realized just how much he cared for Rachel. When he'd started this relationship with her, he'd never seen himself caring so much. But, Rachel had become his lifeline, much like Anne had done for Charles. Somehow, Rachel grounded him in the present, never mentioning the bruises he'd left in the midst of his flashback, and had shown that she was willing to stand by him. Would they go the distance? He couldn't tell. But he suddenly understood why Charles insisted on telling Anne about his abilities.

But Anne had left. Alex had watched her walk out of his room, his heart breaking. He knew in his head that she wasn't afraid of him or his abilities, but his heart told him that she left _because_ of his abilities. Or was it Charles's abilities? That man could control any person he wanted, and Alex suspected that Anne had discovered just how underhanded his gift of the necklace had been.

Would Rachel respond the same way? Would she fear him? Or maybe despise him? The questions kept him from opening up to her about his mutation, but he did his best to warn her when he felt too close to another breakdown.

Now, however, he narrowed his eyes at Hank and Jamie. The two were a little too gleeful.

Rachel glanced up from the bread that had just finished rising and frowned. "What's going on?"

Hank exchanged another grin with Jamie. "Anne's back."

"What!" Rachel tossed the dish towel toward the sink and headed for the door, excitement evident on her face.

Hank caught her arm, gently stopping her with an uncharacteristically bold move. He dropped his hand as quickly as his actions registered with Rachel, looking embarrassed. "Sorry. It's just that. . .She's with Charles right now."

Understanding dawned, and Rachel nodded. "I'll set another place at the table."

And Alex checked the turkey.

For a time, the four young adults worked in silence, all of them wrapped up in their own thoughts. Alex stirred potatoes for Rachel, checked on the turkey multiple times, smothered candied yams with marshmallows, and openly flirted with his girlfriend just to see Hank blush and Jamie smirk. But his thoughts were more serious than anyone suspected.

Anne had returned. She had obviously overcome her fear of Charles and his abilities. And Alex suspected she had returned to stay.

What did that mean for him and Rachel? He found himself watching her as she mashed the potatoes and tried not to stare too much. She was in Charles's "Introduction to Genetics" class, and she planned to take the follow-up class next semester. She and Anne were decent friends, and she insisted on being a part of Alex's life. Could she handle knowing about his abilities? Knowing about Hank and Jamie and Charles? Those three men meant as much to Alex as anyone, and protecting them—even if they didn't _need_ that protection—had become a calling in his life. He already had ideas for how to improve security around the mansion, and he'd begun to consider taking a martial arts course at a local dojo. Or maybe major in education rather than in geology? After all, if Charles got his school off the ground, the students would need a physical education teacher.

Where did Rachel fit into all of that?

Arms slipped around his waist, and Rachel propped her chin on his shoulder. "What's got you so quiet?"

Alex glanced around and saw that Hank and Jamie had cleared out, obviously taking platters of food to the table. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"The future." Alex loosened her grip slightly and turned to face her. "Thinking about you and this school and Charles's class and what it all means."

"Those are some heavy thoughts." Rachel draped her arms over his shoulders. "Figured any of it out?"

"No." Alex pulled her closer, enjoying how she came willingly. But he couldn't let his thoughts go that easily. "Rachel, I've got a lot of things to work through. And not all of them are pretty." _And I can't just go to a psychologist and say, "I'm a mutant and I watched my best friend die because he was a mutant."_ The thought was almost comical in its brutality. No psychologist in the area was trustworthy enough to handle what Alex had been through or what he now faced. Not with his mutation and the things that he'd seen in his life.

Rachel frowned at him. "Alex, I'm not here because things are pretty. I'm here because I care a great deal. About you, about Charles and Anne and your life. Believe me when I say I didn't have it this good. You've got friends who are willing to help you, and I'd love to do the same if you'd let me."

Alex nodded, his gaze drawn to the door leading to the dining room. Hank and Jamie had obviously chosen to leave them alone for a time. "Some of the things I need to work through. . . ." He sighed. "A regular psychologist can't help me. I know things that. . . ."

She put her fingers over his lips. "When you're ready, I'll be here. If you're never ready, I'll try to accept that." She shrugged. "But, Alex, realize that you're not alone."

"I know." He stared at her for another few moments before leaning down to kiss her. She returned it, completely distracting him from his thoughts. Just when things would have turned more than inappropriate, the timer on the oven dinged, reminding them of the day and that the house had more than just the two of them in it.

Alex grinned as he left Rachel a little stunned. She usually had that affect on him, and he enjoyed seeing that he could return the favor. "You know, I was thinking," he said as he reached for oven mitts. As he opened the oven to remove the turkey, he glanced at her. "There's a few houses on this property. If Anne's back for good, as Hank says she is, might be a good idea to move into one of those."

Rachel blinked at him. "Have your own place?"

"I'm thinking about it." He set the roaster pan with the turkey on the stove while she found the carving platter. "I'd have to talk to Charles, and I have no idea how they've been maintained through the years. But they're pretty large and close enough that I could be here if he needs anything."

Rachel waited while he carefully transferred the turkey from the roaster pan to the platter for Charles to carve. "I wouldn't mind you having your own place." Her meaning was obvious, but she sobered a moment later. "Really, Alex, I think it's a good idea. It's time to move on in life."

He nodded but didn't reply as Hank and Jamie again returned to the kitchen. Instead of worrying about his conversation with Rachel, which would likely continue in the coming days, he grinned. "Hank, take this to the table," he said as he handed the platter with the turkey to the Beast. "I'll let Charles and Anne know that food is ready."

He left everyone else moving toward the table and headed for the study. He doubted that Charles and Anne had gone very far, based on what he'd seen of the pair before she left. Besides, Charles would know he was coming, and he prepared himself. While it amused him that Hank became so uncomfortable seeing Alex and Rachel together, he had to say he understood. Seeing Charles and Anne was like watching two lovesick teenagers. The only difference was the light of hope and joy in Charles's eyes. It reminded him of when he'd first met the telepath, of when life was good and Charles had hoped for so much.

Alex sighed as he heard soft voices coming from the study. Maybe it was time he started hoping for something as well. He lifted his hand and knocked on the open door.

~oOo~

 _She stood on a beach, the warmth of the tropical climate a startling contrast to New York's winter. To her right, a submarine lay on its side, the sleek lines broken by its crash along the shore. And, to her left, a highly-advanced plane had been shattered into three pieces. Ten people littered the shore. Three wore common, every-day clothing. Six had on strange yellow and blue uniforms, and the final one—a woman—had chosen silver as her color. Above them, an assortment of missiles hung mid-air while one man wearing a helmet kept them suspended through his control over metal._

" _I tried to stop him." Charles's voice sounded close to her ear, and Anne whirled to see him standing next to her. He was not much taller than her, but the reminder of how much he'd lost swept over her again. He continued, "I thought that if I could get through to him, make him see that those ships were full of innocent men who didn't deserve to die, I could somehow save him."_

 _Anne watched as Erik—his name supplied by Charles's memories—turned the missiles back on the fleet of Russian and American ships in the bay. She listened as Charles's younger self pleaded with Erik, begging him to stop. And she gasped when, in desperation, Charles charged Erik with a shout. The two men wrestled on the ground, the missiles alternately falling from the sky and then recovering as Charles and Erik fought. Finally, the woman in silver—Moira—fired her weapon on Erik to end the conflict. But Erik turned, flicking the bullets away from him._

 _And straight into Charles's spine._

 _Anne gasped as his remembered shout echoed through the air. The massive explosions over the sea paled in comparison to the agony that ripped through her. She stared as Erik nearly killed Moira, as Charles rejected him and his cause in life, and as the man she loved allowed his sister to join Erik even if they did not agree._

 _Then, Erik and those who had joined him were gone. Vanished in a puff of red smoke and leaving Hank, Alex, and one other young man to rush to Charles's side. Anne stepped forward, drawn inexplicably toward the heartbreaking scene on the beach. The tiny cluster of mutants huddled around their leader, worry blossoming into fear and outright panic as his repeated words shattered their worlds._

" _I can't feel my legs. I can't feel my legs. I can't. . . ."_

Anne gasped as the memory faded, feeling tears coursing down her face, over her jaw, and onto her neck. The urge to weep was so strong, as was the panic and absolute desperation. She stared as Charles sat back in his wheelchair—that hated device that allowed him to move from point to point. And she finally understood. All of his hopes and dreams had broken on the beach that day, and he had fought with everything in him to rebuild, to find a new hope, to see his school working to teach mutants how to live. And, when that was also taken from him, he had nothing left to give.

Charles had also been affected by the memory, a sad smile on his face. But, he waited until she managed to swipe at her tears. "I let Moira go," he said softly. "She was CIA, and they would have used any means necessary to find us. I couldn't allow her to go through that."

Anne shook her head. "I had no idea, Charles."

"I know." He hesitated and then sighed. "May I show you one more thing?"

She forced herself to laugh, still mopping at her face while he dug yet another handkerchief from his pocket. Frowning at it, in particular at the "CFX" monogrammed on it, she asked, "How many of these do you have?"

He laughed then, a noise made deep in his chest that always caused her heart to skip a beat. "Enough."

She glanced up to see true amusement in his eyes and nodded. "I trust you, Charles."

His smile changed, softened, and he leaned forward to touch her head yet again. Rather than a memory, however, she felt something else. Something so foreign to her that she almost could not name it. But her training, as well as the heart she had kept buried under so many layers of defense for so long, allowed her to label it. Love. Acceptance. Hope. Desire. Faithfulness. Passion. Attraction. An image of herself in a red halter-top dress so alluring that she wanted to blush under the implications of the thought. Fascination. Talent so unique she didn't have to be a mutant. And a deep-seated wish to live the rest of his natural life showing that and more.

Anne blinked, realizing that, in those few seconds, Charles had managed to put every emotion he felt into her mind. He saw her as beautiful, as a woman who had not lived a perfect life but had come through it with her heart intact, as his lifeline, and as something far more precious than simply a "bed-warmer" or any other insult she'd had hurled at her in the past. He could not even bring himself to think the correct word for what she had done to survive—not in relation to her. In his mind, she was perfect.

Staring at him, she shrugged as his fingers slipped away from her temple. She caught his hand, still trying to fathom how someone like Charles Xavier could look at her and see all of that. She wanted to tell him that she wasn't that pretty, that she wasn't that nice of a person. But all of her methods of pushing him away had resulted in a strange mix of adoration that came from his eyes now.

She smiled, his final wish still lingering in her mind. "You'll never have an answer to your question if you don't ask."

He met her eyes, his expression serious. "I promised myself a while back, Anne, that I would not push you. No matter what the past years dictate, you are no longer that woman. And. . . ."

She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the arms of his wheelchair, and kissed him. This time, she held nothing back, letting the kiss speak for her. His hands came up to her arms as he returned the favor, and she let every doubt and fear leave her mind as she thought about what he was to her. Protector. Provider. Lover. Friend. Her purpose. A vision of him right after he cut his hair, so distracting that she'd been unable to breathe. She stayed there, letting him see what she felt for him until her arms began to tremble, and she was in danger of falling on top of him. _Not that he'd mind in the least!_

Charles laughed at that, breaking the kiss with a slight gasp for air as his chuckle escaped. "You know I can hear your thoughts, love."

Anne smiled against his lips, barely moving away. "That's my goal."

"You're right." He shrugged. "I wouldn't mind."

She laughed at that, and sat back on the couch, regretting how her arms now felt cold as his fingers slipped away. But Charles solved that problem a few moments later by quickly transferring back to the couch. He pulled her close again, kissing her with everything in him. Anne felt her body responding to his attention and knew that one other thing needed to be resolved. He refused to push her, but she could not say that she had promised herself the same thing. If anything, she had promised him that she would push until he was happy and whole.

She pulled back, amused and beyond thrilled when he tried to follow. She grinned when he stared at her, his blue eyes dark and clouded with desire. "Charles Xavier, will you marry me?"

His smile nearly stretched off his face. "I thought you'd never ask." Pulling her close with one hand at the back of her head, he kissed her softly and then reached up to touch his temple. _Yes, love. I will marry you._

Anne grinned when she heard his voice in her mind, relief and something deeper and far more profound flowing through her. This wasn't under the influence of his memories or how he felt about her. This came from her own heart. It was a realization that she had finally found what she wanted all those years ago. Franklin was gone, his memory no longer painful. And the man who had given her the strength to leave England had made his way back into her life, sharing his hope and purpose for the future and somehow letting her form her own.

Then, Charles began babbling. He tucked her under his arm, taking one hand in his and lacing their fingers together. "I don't have a ring," he confessed. "Not that I'm not happy, but these sorts of things require a ring. And a romantic dinner. And. . . ." He stopped talking when she lifted her head from his shoulder.

Anne stared at the joy on his face. "Charles, I don't care about a ring. Or a romantic dinner. I'd rather have Thanksgiving with our family than any of those."

"We'll buy a ring tomorrow." He leaned forward and kissed her, pulling away suddenly before things became too intense. "And Alex is coming."

Anne couldn't help herself. A full laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. She had left this study just five days ago, her heart broken and mind confused. Now, she sat here again, wrapped in the arms of a man who loved and cared for her while they planned for their future. So what that he could read minds? It made for a few less embarrassing encounters. She raised an eyebrow at Charles. "This is our home, Charles. And he can get used to it."

As Alex knocked on the open door and cleared his throat, Charles laughed deeply, as if it was the breaking of years of tension that hung over his shoulders.

Anne waited until Alex told them that Thanksgiving dinner was ready before she turned to Charles. "One more thing," she said, stopping him from moving to his chair so they could join the others. She met his eyes with a steady gaze of her own. "I love you, Charles. And nothing that happens from now on will change that."

His smile widened again, and he claimed one more kiss before they left the study. "I love you, too, Anne."

"I have one question, though." Anne spoke as she stood and waited for Charles to adjust his legs on the footrests of his wheelchair. When he glanced up at her and nodded, she held up the handkerchief he'd given her. "What does the 'F' stand for?"

His laugh of genuine amusement echoed through the downstairs of the house. And, in another room, Hank McCoy grinned at Alex Summers, both younger men well aware of what had likely occurred. While Rachel and Jamie looked on in confusion, they clapped one another on the shoulder in congratulations.

~TBC


	27. Chapter 27

On Thanksgiving Day, 1973, Charles Xavier held Anne Conrad's hand and beamed at the small group gathered around his dining table. "Anne has asked me to marry her," he said in a soft but firm tone, "and I have agreed."

The turkey forgotten, Rachel jumped to her feet to hug Anne. Then, she turned to Charles, who grinned when she gave him an awkward hug that seemed a little uncertain. Alex and Hank shook his hand and welcomed Anne into their family while Jamie pounded Charles on the back. Finally, as each of them bowed their heads, Charles led them in a traditional prayer of thanksgiving for what they all shared. The following day, he allowed Anne to drive him to town, where they picked out a beautiful engagement ring and wedding set while he made arrangements to have a car modified for his own use. That evening, Anne pulled out the green yarn that she'd purchased the day of Charles's relapse all those months ago, starting a shawl that was both traditional and very, very special.

In April 1974, Charles Xavier and Anne Conrad were united in marriage on a glorious spring day. Alex walked her down the aisle, and Hank stood as best man. Rachel witnessed it, sharing little smiles with Alex as the wedding progressed. Rather than a traditional reception, where the bride and groom shared a first dance, Charles watched with pride and love as Hank led Anne in a "brother/sister dance." And Alex did his best to embarrass Charles with his toast, though every person gathered there knew that Charles held the truly embarrassing secrets. Then, in a prearranged signal, Alex, Hank, Rachel, and a few other guests vacated the premises, leaving Anne and Charles to begin their lives together.

Later that evening, as Charles and Anne lay in one another's arms, he sighed. "What did they say?"

She lifted her head from his shoulder, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him. "I'm not their daughter anymore." Her reply broke his heart. After their engagement, Anne had contacted her parents. She had apologized for the years that she'd been away and graciously invited them to her wedding. Even though she'd made a good match with Charles as far as his money was concerned, her family had turned their backs on her. Her father even told her that he'd removed her from the family will and left everything to his closest nephew.

Charles frowned. "Even with becoming a member of the Xavier family?" He had hoped that her opportunistic, aristocratic parents would at least see the value in that.

Anne met his eyes. "Charles, I married you because I love you. Not because of your money. And, if they can't see what a great thing we have, then. . . ." Her voice trailed off as tears filled her eyes. "I've done everything I can to make things right. They will never accept me for who I am. But I have another family now, one that I don't have to worry about accepting me because of what I've done." She rolled her eyes. "After all, a man I call my brother and my sister-in-law are both _blue_."

Charles laughed at that. "Speaking of, you never mentioned Raven and her true appearance."

"I saw Hank change into a Beast," she said dryly. "After that, knowing that Raven is blue. . . Well, it's a little disconcerting how well she hid back in the day, but I can cope."

He laughed again, pulling her into a hug.

And the years passed. They both had struggles and tears along the way, but Charles and Anne fought to overcome them. They both cried the day Alex left them for good, his eventual marriage to Rachel giving them two beautiful children that they chose to raise away from the X-Men and their dangerous lives. Anne watched as Charles lost his hair, finding him attractive even then. And Charles held her through nights when they both realized that they would never have children of their own. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters became a reality, starting with the troubled young Scott Summers—Alex's estranged brother—and continuing with the confused Storm and catatonic Jean. Finally, after finding all the names he had promised Logan, Anne answered the door to a rather confused, very irate, cigar-smoking man in a leather coat, jeans, boots, and plaid shirt. She heard Charles's gasp of surprise and finally realized what had happened.

Logan had come home.

Forty-nine years after their wedding, while most of the school went about their day and several of their now-grown students planned a special fiftieth anniversary celebration for the next year, Charles sat in his study. Scott and Jean had come to see them about the celebration, and Anne had brought her knitting to one corner of the room. The furniture had changed over the years, becoming sleeker and much easier to handle. But Anne's knitting had bridged gaps between their wealth and the students' unease. Blankets draped across the foot of beds belonging to young boys afraid of their own shadow, shawls wrapped around girls' shoulders who had never been hugged, and scarves were pulled from the closets when the temperatures dipped. Her hands had lost some of their dexterity as arthritis settled in, but she still played the piano and taught a love for music to any student who wanted to learn. And her face had creased with age and a smile that always welcomed anyone.

Logan stood in the door, however, his thoughts a jumble of confusion and relief. He stared, unaware that Anne was even there. "Professor."

Charles glanced up at the whisper, snapping a book closed and tossing it onto his desk. "Logan, don't you have a class to teach?"

"A class?" Logan's eyebrows nearly touched his hairline. "To. . .teach?"

"History." Charles used the controls on his hover-chair, one of Hank's more brilliant inventions, to move around his desk with ease.

"History?" Logan absorbed that bit of news. "I could use some help with that."

"Help with what?"

"Pretty much everything after. . .1973."

Charles drew in a deep breath, not needing his telepathy to understand what had happened. He glanced to the corner, where Anne stared at him with an equally startled—and absolutely amazed—expression on her face. She was still beautiful, her brown hair having faded to white. Today, she wore a red dress, the necklace Hank had made for her all those years ago still nestled in the V-neck. But the chip that Hank had put there had long since been removed, trust flowing freely between them. In one dark night, not long after their engagement, Charles had told her about Logan and his message from the future. And they had worked each day to ensure that all mutants had a place to go.

Now, Charles smiled at Logan. "Welcome back."

Logan grinned. "It's good to see you, Charles. It's good to see everyone." The man's meaning was not lost, not after he lived a lifetime of losing every person he cared about.

"Well," Charles began with an answering grin, "I had a promise to keep. I think you and I have a lot of catching up to do." He held up a finger. "But, first, I don't believe you've met Anne." He turned to her. "Love, this is the man I told you about: Logan. Logan, meet my wife, Anne Xavier."

Logan's eyes bugged out of his head for a moment, and then his expression settled into one of acceptance. He turned to the woman who had set her knitting aside and pushed to her feet, gently taking her hand in his. "Wife?" He directed this to Charles. "When I knew you, you weren't. . . ."

Anne put her hand on his arm. "You made a lot of changes, Logan. Not just for mutants everywhere, but in the lives of those for whom you cared the most." She met Charles's eyes with a fond look of her own. "Those changes brought me back into contact with Charles twelve years after we first met, and we've stayed together since then."

Logan nodded, obviously startled to find that the Professor X he'd known was now married. Much had changed for the ageless mutant, and Charles suspected that Logan didn't find himself absolutely speechless very often.

Anne, sensing this with an uncanny ability she'd developed after years of working with Charles, tugged Logan toward one of the chairs in the study. "Sit," she ordered in such a way that Logan obeyed her. She smiled at Charles. "I'll make tea."

Charles watched her leave the study, her head held high and her stride confident. She paused to speak with Storm, greeted several students late to class, and then disappeared toward the kitchen. Her family's abandonment had done nothing to dim the elegance she carried in every movement, and he smiled every time she displayed the confidence she'd discovered in 1973. Even after all these years, she could still distract him from anything.

Logan cleared his throat, pulling Charles back to reality. "I take it she's quite a woman."

Charles smiled at him. "You have no idea." He braced his elbows on the arms of his chair, leaning forward. "Now, what's the last thing you remember?"

Logan's amusement faded as he frowned. "Drowning."

As Charles filled Logan in on the last fifty years, Anne slipped into the study with a tea tray. Then, she left the men alone. Finally, that evening, she welcomed Charles to the small suite of rooms they kept on the upper floor of the mansion, his hover-chair having made it possible for him to access the rest of the house without the use of an irritating elevator. She had moved her knitting upstairs, and she held a stack of papers from Charles's philosophy class that was canceled for the day. With a smile, she watched as he loosened the tie he always wore and shrugged out of the suit jacket. As she hung it in the closet, she asked, "How is he?"

"Logan?" Charles shrugged, catching her hand. "He'll be fine." He tugged her into the couch and then transferred from his chair. He had long since lost his hatred of the thing, learning through time and patience that his mind did not need to be bound by his inability to walk. Now, he pulled his wife of nearly fifty years close, still amazed every day when she allowed him into her mind. "I think he was more surprised by you than anything."

Anne laughed, a low chuckle that she'd picked up from him. "How are you, Charles?"

He lifted his chin, his mind roving freely as he considered answering her question. Storm had retired to her room, preparing for class the next day and planning to ride the winds if a thunderstorm developed later. Logan, with all of his shock and absolute joy, had left the mansion for a ride on Scott's motorcycle. And Scott and Jean had sequestered themselves away in their room. While things had changed, with Alex leaving and Scott arriving, their family still surrounded them.

Charles smiled at his wife. "I'm happy, Anne."

She kissed him softly. "And I'm glad."

As the evening faded to night, the students prepared for bed and finished homework assignments, showered after working in the danger room, and went about their day. Charles took a few moments to grade papers for several classes, and Anne bound off yet another blanket, this one in yellow and blue. And, when they both slipped beneath the covers, they smiled at one another.

They were home, their hopes and dreams finally fulfilled. And, no matter how many tears had been shed in the past, they had a family. It no longer mattered what they had or had not lost. What mattered was now, this moment and the bright future for all mutants.

It had been worth it all.

 _~The End~_

 **Author's Note:** Well, folks, here it is! The final chapter. I know there are a few things that people will comment on, namely Hank and Alex. Let me just put this out here: I plan to write a sequel to this focusing on those two characters. Hence why they're not as prominent in this chapter. And, as far as Alex and his relationships are concerned, I had always planned that he and Rachel would call it quits eventually. But she developed into such a strong-willed character that even Alex wasn't able to change her mind. That is also part of what I hope to write about in the sequel.

But, for now, the story is complete. It's been quite a journey with this one, and it has been a joy to share with all of you. I hope that, even if this is fiction, every person was able to find some way to overcome a challenge in their lives, the courage to face a difficult situation, or the comfort of knowing that someone else knows how you feel. Thank you for all of your reviews, particularly for the guest reviews to whom I cannot respond. Each one, even those criticizing the work and minor trivia, is appreciated.

I hope and pray you all are blessed in the coming holiday season!

~lg


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